DREAM-LIFE 


DREAM-LIFE 


With  Illustration!  and  Decorations  by 

E.  M.  ASHE 


INDIANAPOLIS 
BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


<)  ^ 


COPYRIGHT  1913 

to* 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY'S 


PRESS    OF 

BRAUNWORTH   *   CO. 

BOOKBINDERS    AND    PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN.    N.   Y. 


CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTORY 

I   With  My  Aunt  Tabithy    . 
II    With  My  Reader 

DREAMS    OF    BOYHOOD 

SPRING 

I    Rain  in  the  Garret     . 
II    School  Dreams    .... 

III  Boy  Sentiment     .... 

IV  A  Friend  Made  and  Friend  Lost 
V   Boy  Religion       .... 

VI    A  New  England  Squire    . 

VII  The  Country  Church 

VIII   A  Home  Scene    .... 

ORE  A  M  S  OF  YOUTH 

SUMMER 

I    Cloister  Life       .... 
II    First  Ambition    .... 

III  College  Romance 

IV  First  Look  at  the  World       . 
V   A  Broken  Home 

VI    Family  Confidence     . 
VII   A  Good  Wife      .... 

VIII  A    Broken    Hope       . 


DREAMS    OF    MANHOOD 


AUTUMN 

I   Pride  of  Manliness   . 


207 
213 


CONTENTS  —  Continued 

II    Man  of  the  World 221 

III  Manly   Hope 230 

IV  Manly  Love 240 

V   Cheer  and  Children 247 

VI   A  Dream  of  Darkness     .     .                 .  257 

VII    Peace 266 

DREA  MS   OF   AGE 

WINTER 277 

I    What  is  Gone 282 

II   What  is  Left 289 

III  Grief  and  Joy  of  Age       .       .       .       .  295 

IV  The  End  of  Dreams  ...  .302 


NEW  PREFACE 


REAM-LIFE  grew  out  of  the  "Rever- 

Dll  ies"  even  as  one  bubble  piles  upon  an- 
il other  from  the  pipe  out  of  which 
young  breath  blows  them  into  bigness : 
and  it  was  largely  because  the  first  floated  so  well 
and  so  widely,  that  life  and  consequence  were 
given  to  this  companion  book. 

I  am  half  ashamed,  at  this  late  day,  to  give  so 
poor  excuse  for  the  writing  of  Dream-Life:  any 
and  every  book  should  have  a  better  reason  for 
being  wrought,  than  its  good  chance  of  catching  a 
popular  tide,  and  floating  upon  it  to  success. 
There  is  always  danger  of  strain  in  work  so  un- 
dertaken and  of  weak  duplication,  and  vague 
echoes  of  foregone  things. 

I  well  remember  that  at  a  Yale  College  gather- 
ing, which  followed  closely  upon  the  publication 
of  the  "Reveries,"  a  classmate  of  mine  (now  I 
think  holding  high  judicial  position)  took  me  aside 
and  warned  me,  with  a  very  grave  and  solemn 
countenance,  against  being  made  a  puppet  of  the 
publishers ;  he  had  seen,  with  good-natured  dis- 
tress, that  I  was  to  follow  up  the  first  success  with 
another  book  in  the  same  vein,  and  at  short  order : 
he  feared  the  result;  it  was  driving  things  too 
hard. 

I  listened  gratefully,  but — it  must  be  said — 
with  dulled  ears.  Young  sentiment  was  then  so 
jubilant  in  me  that  it  seemed  to  me  I  could  have 


(I 


A    NEW    PREFACE 

reeled  it  off  by  scores ;  nor  indeed  did  spontaneity 
•  prove  lacking. 

It  was  to  a  quaint  old  farmhouse  shadowed  by 
elms,  in  a  very  quiet  Country  (whose  main  fea- 
tures peep  out  from  the  opening  chapters  of 
Spring,  Summer  and  Autumn  in  this  volume),  that 
I  went  to  finish  my  summer  task— the  book  being 
promised  for  early  winter.  There  was  scant,  but 
bracing  farmer's  fare  for  me;  and  a  world  of  en- 
couragement in  the  play  of  sun  and  shadow  over 
the  tranquil  valley  landscape,  and  in  the  murmur 
of  the  brooks  that  I  had  known  of  old. 

In  six  weeks  I  had  completed  my  task,  and  go- 
ing to  the  publishers  (then  established  in  the  old 
Brick  Church  Chapel — where  now  stands  the 
Times  Building  in  New  York),  I  threw  my  bundle 
of  manuscript  upon  the  counter,  saying,  "What 
will  you  give  me  for  the  lot?" 

Mr.  Scribner  took  up  the  budget  smilingly,  and 
said:  "I  wouldn't  advise  you  to  part  with  the 
copyright;  but  if  you  must  have  an  offer  I  will 
give  you  four  thousand  dollars." 

There  was  cheer  in  this:  yet  I  wisely  took  his 
advice — which  the  result  amply  justified.  Its  sale 
the  first  year  went  beyond  that  of  the  "Rev- 
eries"; but  afterward  kept  an  even  range  at  about 
one-third  less  than  that  of  its  forerunner.  And 
this  proportion  has  held  with  curious  persistence; 
no  accident  of  sales  having  again  carried  its  score 
up  to  that  of  the  first  book — or  brought  it  more 
than  a  third  below. 

Like  the  "Reveries"  it  came  to  several  foreign 
reprints— most  of  these  preceded  by  courteous 


A     NEW      REFACE 

communication  with  the  author  :  a  signal  excep- 
tion, however  was  in  the  case  of  an  Edinburgh 
house  of  strong  theologic  proclivities  (now  hav- 
ing a  branch  in  New  York),  which  after  pirat- 
ing the  book,  prepared  it  for  orthodox  readers  by 
dropping  out  the  chapter  on  "Boy  Religion."  I 
could  have  wished  that  the  book  had  been  alto- 
gether so  good  as  to  have  justified  them  in  making 
their  theft  complete  —  or  altogether  so  bad  as  to 
have  kept  them  honestly  aloof. 

On  American  ground  the  little  book  has  fallen  — 
without  doing  great  harm  —  into  a  good  many 
well-meaning  families  :  and  I  have  heard  of  it 
even  as  insinuating  its  way  on  occasions  into 
some  Sunday-school  libraries  —  where  I  hope  it 
may  work  no  blight.  Surely  there  are  six  days  in 
the  week,  on  which,  I  should  think,  its  perusal 
could  do  no  mischief;  and  so,  commending  it  to 
all  young  people  of  tender  susceptibilities,  and  to 
ail  old  people  of  charitable  intent,  I  give  this  new 
prefatory  send-off  to  the  Fable  of  DREAM-LIFE. 


D.  G.  M. 


EDGEWOOD,  September,  1883. 


DREAM-LIFE 


WITH   MY  AUNT  TABITHY 

"PSHAW  !"  said  my  Aunt  Tabithy,  "have 
you  not  done  with  dreaming?" 

My  Aunt  Tabithy,  though  an  excellent 
and  most  notable  person,  loves  occasionally 
a  quiet  bit  of  satire.  And  when  I  told  her 
that  I  was  sharpening  my  pen  for  a  new 
story  of  those  dreamy  fancies  and  half  ex- 
periences, which  lie  grouped  along  the  jour- 
neying hours  of  my  solitary  life,  she  smiled 
as  if  in  derision. 

"Ah,  Isaac,"  said  she,  "all  that  is  ex- 
hausted :  you  have  rung  so  many  changes  on 
your  hopes  and  your  dreams  that  you  have 
nothing  left,  but  to  make  them  real — if  you 
can." 

It  is  very  idle  to  get  angry  with  a  good- 
I 


DREAM-LIFE 


natured  old  lady:  I  did  better  than  this — I 
made  her  listen  to  me. 

Exhausted,  do  you  say,  Aunt  Tabithy? 
Is  life  then  exhausted,  is  hope  gone  out,  is 
fancy  dead? 

No,  no.  Hope  and  the  world  are  full; 
and  he  who  drags  into  book-pages  a  phrase 
or  two  of  the  great  life  of  passion,  of  en- 
durance, of  love,  of  sorrow,  is  but  wetting 
a  feather  in  the  sea  that  breaks  ceaselessly 
along  the  great  shore  of  the  years.  Every 
man's  heart  is  a  living  drama ;  every  death 
is  a  drop-scene ;  every  book  a  faint  footlight 
to  throw  a  little  flicker  on  the  stage. 

There  is  no  need  of  wandering  widely  to 
catch  incident  or  adventure :  they  are  every- 
where about  us ;  each  day  is  a  succession  of 
escapes  and  joys,  not  perhaps  clear  to  the 
world  but  brooding  in  our  thought,  and  liv- 
ing in  our  brain.  From  the  very  first,  an- 
gels and  devils  are  busy  with  us,  and  we  are 
struggling  against  them,  and  for  them. 

No,  no,  Aunt  Tabithy — this  life  of  mus- 
ing does  not  exhaust  so  easily.  It  is  like 
the  springs  on  the  farmland,  that  are  fed 
with  all  the  showers  and  the  dews  of  the 
year,  and  that  from  the  narrow  fissures  of 
the  rock,  send  up  streams  continually;  or  it 


WITH    MY   AUNT   TABITHY 

is  like  the  deep  well  in  the  meadow,  where 
one  may  see  stars  at  noon — when  no  stars 
are  shining. 

What  is  reverie,  and  what  are  these  day- 
dreams, but  fleecy  cloud-drifts  that  float 
eternally,  and  eternally  change  shapes,  upon 
the  great  over-arching  sky  of  thought? 
You  may  seize  the  strong  outlines  that  the 
passion  breezes  of  to-day  shall  throw  into 
their  figures;  but  to-morrow  may  breed  a 
whirlwind  that  will  chase  swift  gigantic 
shadows  over  the  heaven  of  your  thought, 
and  change  the  whole  landscape  of  your 
life. 

Dreamland  will  never  be  exhausted,  until 
we  enter  the  land  of  dreams ;  and  until,  in 
"shuffling  off  this  mortal  coil,"  thought  will 
become  fact,  and  all  facts  will  be  only 
thought. 

As  it  is,  I  can  conceive  no  mood  of  mind 
more  in  keeping  with  what  is  to  follow  upon 
the  grave,  than  those  fancies  which  warp 
our  frail  hulks  toward  the  ocean  of  the 
Infinite;  and  that  so  sublimate  the  realities 
of  this  being,  that  they  seem  to  belong  to 
that  shadowy  realm,  where  every  day's 
journey  is  leading. 

It  was  warm  weather ;  and  my  aunt  was 


X-N  /^\ 

4  DREAM-LIFE 

dozing.  "What  is  this  all  to  be  about?" 
said  she,  recovering  her  knitting  needle. 

"About  love,  and  toil,  and  duty,  and  sor- 
row," said  I. 

My  aunt  laid  down  her  knitting,  looked 
at  me  over  the  rim  of  her  spectacles,  and — 
took  snuff. 

I  said  nothing. 

"How  many  times  have  you  been  in  love, 
Isaac  ?"  said  she. 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  say,  "Pshaw !" 

Judging  from  her  look  of  assurance,  I 
could  not  possibly  have  made  a  more  satis- 
factory reply. 

My  aunt  finished  the  needle  she  was  upon, 
smoothed  the  stocking  leg  over  her  knee, 
and  looking  at  me  with  a  very  comical  ex- 
pression, said,  "Isaac,  you  are  a  sad  fel- 
low !" 

I  did  not  like  the  tone  of  this ;  it  sounded 
very  much  as  if  it  would  have  been  in  the 
mouth  of  any  one  else — "bad  fellow!" 

And  she  went  on  to  ask  me  in  a  very 
bantering  way  if  my  stock  of  youthful 
loves  was  not  nearly  exhausted;  and  she 
cited  the  episode  of  the  fair-haired  Enrica, 
as  perhaps  the  most  tempting  that  I  could 
draw  from  my  experience. 

A  better  man  than  myself — if  he  had  only 


.WITH   MY  AUNT  TABITHY  5 

a  fair  share  of  vanity — would  have  been 
nettled  at  this;  and  I  replied  somewhat 
tartly,  that  I  had  never  professed  to  write 
my  experiences.  These  might  be  more  or 
less  tempting;  but  certainly,  if  they  were 
of  a  kind  which  I  have  attempted  to  portray 
in  the  characters  of  Bella,  or  of  Carry, 
neither  my  Aunt  Tabithy  nor  any  one  else, 
should  have  learned  such  truth  from  any 
book  of  mine.  There  are  griefs  too  sacred 
to  be  babbled  to  the  world ;  and  there  may 
be  loves,  which  one  would  forbear  to  whis- 
per even  to  a  friend. 

No,  no;  imagination  has  been  playing 
pranks  with  memory ;  and  if  I  have  made 
the  feeling  real,  I  am  content  that  the  facts 
should  be  false.  Feeling,  indeed,  has  a 
higher  truth  in  it,  than  circumstance.  It 
appeals  to  a  larger  jury  for  acquittal ;  it  is 
approved  or  condemned  by  a  better  judge. 
And  if  I  can  catch  this  bolder  and  richer 
truth  of  feeling,  I  will  not  mind  if  the  types 
of  it  are  all  fabrications. 

If  I  run  over  some  sweet  experience  of 
love  (my  Aunt  Tabithy  brightened  a  little) 
must  I  make  good  the  fact  that  the  loved 
one  lives,  and  expose  her  name  and  qual- 
ities, to  make  your  sympathy  sound?  Or 
shall  I  not  rather  be  working  upon  higher 


o 


DREAM-LIFE 


and  holier  ground,  if  I  take  the  passion  for 
itself,  and  so  weave  it  into  words,  that  you 
and  every  willing  sufferer  may  recognize 
the  fervor,  and  forget  the  personality  ? 

Life,  after  all,  is  but  a  bundle  of  hints, 
each  suggesting  actual  and  positive  develop- 
ment, but  rarely  reaching  it.  And  as  I  recall 
these  hints,  and  in  fancy  trace  them  to  their 
issues,  I  am  as  truly  dealing  with  life,  as  if 
my  life  had  dealt  them  all  to  me. 

This  is  what  I  would  be  doing  in  the 
present  book.  I  would  catch  up  here  and 
there  the  shreds  of  feeling,  which  the  bram- 
bles and  roughnesses  of  the  world  have  left 
tangling  on  my  heart,  and  weave  them  out 
into  those  soft  and  perfect  tissues,  which, 
if  the  world  had  been  only  a  little  less  rough, 
might  now  perhaps  enclose  my  heart  al- 
together. 

"Ah,"  said  my  Aunt  Tabithy,  as  she 
smoothed  the  stocking  leg  again,  with  a 
sigh,  "there  is,  after  all,  but  one  youth-time ; 
and  if  you  put  down  its  memories  once, 
you  can  find  no  second  growth." 

My  Aunt  Tabithy  was  wrong.  There  is 
as  much  growth  in  the  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings that  run  behind  us  as  in  those  that  run 
before  us.  You  may  make  a  rich  full  pic- 
ture of  your  childhood  to-day;  but  let  the 


0 


WITH    MY  AUNT  TABITHY 

hour  go  by,  and  the  darkness  stoop  to  your 
pillow  with  its  million  shapes  of  the  past, 
and  my  word  for  it,  you  shall  have  some 
flash  of  childhood  lighten  upon  you,  that 
was  unknown  to  your  busiest  thought  of 
the  morning. 

Let  a  week  go  by ;  and  in  some  interval 
of  care,  as  you  recall  the  smile  of  a  mother, 
or  some  pale  sister  who  is  dead,  a  new 
crowd  of  memories  will  rush  upon  your 
soul,  and  leave  such  traces  in  your  thought 
as  will  make  you  kinder  and  better  for  days 
and  weeks.  Or  you  shall  assist  at  some 
neighbor  funeral,  where  the  little  dead  one 
(like  one  you  have  seen  before)  shall  hold 
in  its  tiny  grasp  (as  you  have  taught  little 
dead  hands  to  do)  fresh  flowers,  laughing 
flowers,  lying  lightly  on  the  white  robe  of 
the  dear  child — all  pale — cold' — silent — 

I  had  touched  my  Aunt  Tabithy ;  she  had 
dropped  a  stitch  in  her  knitting.  I  believe 
she  was  weeping. 

Aye,  this  brain  of  ours  is  a  master-worker, 
whose  appliances  we  do  not  one  half  know ; 
and  this  heart  of  ours  is  a  rare  storehouse, 
furnishing  the  brain  with  new  material 
every  hour  of  our  lives ;  and  their  limits  we 
shall  not  know,  until  they  shall  end — to- 
gether. 


f 


8  DREAM-LIFE  Nf 

Nor  is  there,  as  many  faint-hearts  imag- 
ine, but  one  phase  of  earnestness  in  our 
life  of  feeling.  One  train  of  deep  emotion 
can  not  fill  up  the  heart;  it  radiates  like  a 
star,  Godvvard  and  earthward.  It  spends 
and  reflects  all  ways.  Its  force  is  to  be 
reckoned  not  so  much  by  token,  as  by  ca- 
pacity. Facts  are  the  poorest  and  most 
slumberous  evidences  of  passion,  or  of  af- 
fection. True  feeling  is  ranging  every- 
where; whereas  your  actual  attachments 
are  too  apt  to  be  tied  to  sense. 

A  single  affection  may  indeed  be  true, 
earnest  and  absorbing;  but  such  an  one, 
after  all,  is  but  a  type — and  if  the  object 
be  worthy,  a  glorious  type — of  the  great 
book  of  feeling:  it  is  only  the  vapor  from 
the  caldron  of  the  heart,  and  bears  no 
deeper  relation  to  its  exhaustless  sources 
than  the  letter,  which  my  pen  makes,  bears 
to  the  thought  that  inspires  it — or  than  a 
single  morning  strain  of  your  orioles  and 
{'  thrushes  bears  to  that  wide  bird-chorus 
'  which  is  making  every  sunrise  a  worship, 
and  every  grove  a  temple ! 

My  Aunt  Tabithy  nodded. 

Nor  is  this  a  mere  bachelor  fling  against 
constancy.  I  can  believe,  Heaven  knows, 


o 


WITH    MY  AUNT  TABITHY  9 

in  an  unalterable  and  unflinching  affection, 
which  neither  desires  nor  admits  the  pros- 
pect of  any  other.    But  when  one  is  tasking 
his  brain  to  talk  for  his  heart — when  he  is 
not  writing  positive  history,  but  only  mak- 
ing mention,  as  it  were,  of  the  heart's  ca- 
pacities, who  shall  say  that  he  has  reached 
the    fulness,    that    he    has    exhausted    the 
stock  of  its  feeling,  or  that  he  has  touched 
its  highest  notes  ?    It  is  true  there  is  but  one 
heart  in  a  man  to  be  stirred ;  but  every  stir    i 
creates  a  new  combination  of  feeling  that,    '. 
like  the  turn  of  a  kaleidoscope,  will  show   | 
some  fresh  color  or  form. 

A  bachelor,  to  be  sure,  has  a  marvelous  ; 
advantage  in  this;  and  with  the  tenderest  ! 
influences  once  anchored  in  the  bay  of  mar-  ; 
riage,  there  is  little  disposition  to  scud  off 
under  each  pleasant  breeze  of  feeling.   Nay, 
I    can    even    imagine — perhaps    somewhat 
captiously — that    after    marriage,     feeling 
would  become  a  habit,  a  rich  and  holy  habit 
certainly,  but  yet  a  habit,  which  weakens 
the  omnivorous  grasp  of  the  affections,  and 
schools   one   to   a   unity   of   emotion   that 
doubts    and    ignores    the   promptness    and 
variety    of    impulse    which    we    bachelors 
possess. 


TO 


DREAM-LIFE 


Q 


My  aunt  nodded  again. 

Could  it  be  that  she  approved  what  I  had 
been  saying?  I  hardly  knew. 

Poor  old  lady — she  did  not  know  herself. 
She  was  asleep ! 


Q 


ii 


WITH   MY  READER 

HAVING  silenced  my  Aunt  Tabithy,  I 
shall  be  generous  enough  in  my  triumph  to 
offer  an  explanatory  chat  to  my  reader. 

This  is  a  history  of  dreams;  and  there 
will  be  those  who  will  sneer  at  such  a  his- 
tory, as  the  work  of  a  dreamer.  So  indeed 
it  is ;  and  you,  my  courteous  reader,  are  a 
dreamer,  too ! 

You  would  perhaps  like  to  find  your 
speculations  about  wealth,  marriage  or  in- 
fluence called  by  some  better  name  than 
dreams.  You  would  like  to  see  the  history 
of  them — if  written  at  all — baptized  at  the 
font  of  your  own  vanity,  with  some  such 
title  as — life's  purposes,  or  life's  promise.  If 
there  had  been  a  philosophic  naming  to  my 
observations,  you  might  have  reckoned 
them  good :  as  it  is,  you  count  them  all  bald 
and  palpable  fiction. 

But  is  it  so?  I  care  not  how  matter-of- 
fact  you  may  be,  you  have  in  your  own  life, 
ii 


\ 


S  € 


12 


DREAM-LIFE 


o 


at  some  time,  proved  the  very  truth  of  what 
I  have  set  down :  and  the  chances  are,  that 
even  now,  gray  as  you  may  be,  and  eco- 
nomic as  you  may  be,  and  devotional  as  you 
pretend  to  be,  you  light  up  your  Sabbath 
reflections  with  just  such  dreams  of  wealth, 
of  percentages,  or  of  family,  as  you  will 
find  scattered  over  these  pages. 

I  am  not  to  be  put  aside  with  any  talk 
about  stocks,  and  duties,  and  respectabil- 
ities ;  all  these,  though  very  eminent  matters, 
are  but  so  many  types  in  the  volume  of  your 
thought;  and  your  eager  resolves  about 
them  are  but  so  many  ambitious  waves, 
breaking  up  from  that  great  sea  of  dreamy 
speculation  that  has  spread  over  your  soul, 
from  its  first  start  into  the  realm  of  CON- 
SCIOUSNESS. 

No  man's  brain  is  so  dull,  and  no  man's 
eye  so  blind,  that  they  can  not  catch  food 
for  dreams.  Each  little  episode  of  life  is 
full,  had  we  but  the  perception  of  its  ful- 
ness. There  is  no  such  thing  as  blank,  in 
the  world  of  thought.  Every  action  and 
emotion  have  their  development  growing 
and  gaining  on  the  soul.  Every  affection 
has  its  tears  and  smiles.  Nay,  the  very 
material  world  is  full  of  meaning,  and  by 


o 


WITH    MY   READER 


suggesting  thought,  is  making  us  what  we 
are,  and  what  we  will  be. 

The  sparrow  that  is  twittering  on  the 
edge  of  my  balcony  is  calling  up  to  me  this 
moment  a  world  of  memories  that  reach 
over  half  my  lifetime,  and  a  world  of  hope 
that  stretches  farther  than  any  flight  of 
sparrows.  The  rose-tree  which  shades  his 
mottled  coat  is  full  of  buds  and  blossoms ; 
and  each  bud  and  blossom  is  a  token  of 
promise  that  has  issues  covering  life,  and 
reaching  beyond  death.  The  quiet  sunshine 
beyond  the  flower  and  beyond  the  sparrow 
— glistening  upon  the  leaves,  and  playing  in 
delicious  waves  of  warmth  over  the  reek- 
ing earth — is  lighting  both  heart  and  hope, 
and  quickening  into  activity  a  thousand 
thoughts  of  what  has  been,  and  of  what  will 
be.  The  meadow  stretching  away  under  its 
golden  flood — waving  with  grain,  and  with 
the  feathery  blossoms  of  the  grass,  and 
golden  buttercups,  and  white  nodding 
daisies — comes  to  my  eye  like  the  lapse  of 
fading  childhood,  studded  here  and  there 
with  the  bright  blossoms  of  joy,  crimsoned 
all  over  with  the  flush  of  health,  and  enam- 
eled with  memories  that  perfume  the  soul. 
The  blue  hills  beyond,  with  deep  blue  shad- 


o 


14  DREAM-LIFE 

ows  gathered  in  their  bosom,  lie  before  me 
like  mountains  of  years,  over  which  I  shall 
climb  through  shadows  to  the  slope  of  Age, 
and  go  down  to  the  deeper  shadows  of 
Death. 

Nor  are  dreams  without  their  variety, 
whatever  your  character  may  be.  I  care 
not  how  much,  in  the  pride  of  your  practical 
judgment,  or  in  your  learned  fancies,  you 
may  sneer  at  any  dream  of  love,  and  reckon 
it  all  a  poet's  fiction :  there  are  times  when 
such  dreams  come  over  you  like  a  summer 
cloud,  and  almost  stifle  you  with  their 
warmth. 

Seek  as  you  will  for  increase  of  lands  or 
moneys,  and  there  are  moments  when  a 
spark  of  some  giant  mind  will  flash  over 
your  cravings,  and  wake  your  soul  sud- 
denly to  a  quick  and  yearning  sense  of  that 
influence  which  is  begotten  of  intellect ;  and 
you  task  your  dreams — as  I  have  copied 
them  here — to  build  before  you  the  pleas- 
ures of  such  a  renown. 

I  care  not  how  worldly  you  may  be: 
there  are  times  when  all  distinctions  seem 
like  dust,  and  when  at  the  graves  of  the 
great  you  dream  of  a  coming  country, 
where  your  proudest  hopes  shall  be  dimmed 
forever. 


9 


WITH    MY   READER 

Married  or  unmarried,  young  or  old,  poet 
or  worker,  you  are  still  a  dreamer,  and  will 
one  time  know,  and  feel,  that  your  life  is 
but  a  dream.  Yet  you  call  this  fiction :  you 
stave  off  the  thoughts  in  print  which  come 
over  you  in  reverie.  You  will  not  admit  to 
the  eye  what  is  true  to  the  heart.  Poor 
weakling,  and  worldling,  you  are  not 
strong  enough  to  face  yourself ! 

You  will  read  perhaps  with  smiles,  you 
will  possibly  praise  the  ingenuity ;  you  will 
talk,  with  a  lip  schooled  against  the  slightest 
quiver,  of  some  bit  of  pathos,  and  say  that 
it  is — well  done.  Yet  why  is  it  well  done? 
— only  because  it  is  stolen  from  your  very 
life  and  heart.  It  is  good,  because  it  is  so 
common ;  ingenious,  because  it  is  so  honest ; 
well-conceived,  because  it  is  not  conceived 
at  all. 

There  are  thousands  of  mole-eyed  people 
who  count  all  passion  in  print  a  lie:  peo- 
ple who  will  grow  into  a  rage  at  trifles,  and 
weep  in  the  dark,  and  love  in  secret,  and 
hope  without  mention,  and  cover  it  all  under 
the  cloak  of  what  they  call — propriety.  I 
can  see  before  me  now  some  gray-haired  old 
gentleman,  very  money-getting,  very  cor- 
rect, very  cleanly,  who  reads  the  morning 
paper  with  unction,  and  his  Bible  with  de- 


C 


J  \ 


l6  DREAM-LIFE 

termination ;  who  listens  to  dull  sermons 
with  patience,  and  who  prays  with  quiet 
self-applause;  and  yet  there  are  moments 
belonging  to  his  life,  when  his  curdled 
affections  yearn  for  something  that  they 
have  not,  when  his  avarice  oversteps  all  the 
commandments — when  his  pride  builds 
castles  full  of  splendor;  and  yet  put  this 
before  his  eye,  and  he  reads  with  the  most 
careless  air  in  the  world,  and  condemns  as 
arrant  fiction,  what  can  not  be  proved  to  the 
elders. 

We  do  not  like  to  see  our  emotions  un- 
riddled: it  is  not  agreeable  to  the  proud 
man  to  find  his  weakness  exposed ;  it  is 
shocking  to  the  disappointed  lover  to  see 
his  heart  laid  bare ;  it  is  a  great  grief  to  the 
pining  maiden  to  witness  the  exposure  of 
her  loves.  We  do  not  like  our  fancies 
painted;  we  do  not  contrive  them  for  re- 
hearsal: our  dreams  are  private,  and  when 
they  are  made  public,  we  disown  them. 

I  sometimes  think  that  I  must  be  a  very 
honest  fellow  for  writing  down  those  fan- 
cies which  every  one  else  seems  afraid  to 
whisper.  I  shall,  at  least,  come  in  for  my 
share  of  the  odium  in  entertaining  such  fan- 
cies; indeed  I  shall  expect  the  charge  of 
entertaining  them  exclusively;  and  shall 


o 


WITH    MY   READER 


scarce  expect  to  find  a  single  fellow-con- 
fessor, unless  it  be  some  pure  and  innocent- 
thoughted  girl,  who  shall  say  peccavi  to — 
here  and  there — a  single  rainbow  fancy. 

Well,  I  can  bear  it ;  but  in  bearing  it,  I 
shall  be  consoled  with  the  reflection  that  I 
have  a  great  company  of  fellow-sufferers, 
who  lack  only  the  honesty  to  tell  me  of 
their  sympathy.  It  will  even  relieve  in  no 
small  degree  my  burden  to  watch  the  effort 
they  will  take  to  conceal  what  I  have  so 
boldly  divulged. 

Nature  is  very  much  the  same  thing  in 
one  man  that  it  is  in  another :  and  as  I  have 
already  said,  feeling  has  a  higher  truth  in 
it  than  circumstance.  Let  it  only  be  touched 
fairly  and  honestly,  and  the  heart  of  human- 
ity answers;  but  if  it  be  touched  foully  or 
one-sidedly,  you  may  find  here  and  there  a 
lame-souled  creature  who  will  give  re- 
sponse, but  there  is  no  heart-throb  in  it. 

Of  one  thing  I  am  sure:  if  my  pictures 
are  fair,  worthy,  and  hearty,  you  must  see 
it  in  the  reading :  but  if  they  are  forced  and 
hard,  no  amount  of  kindness  can  make  you 
feel  their  truth  as  I  want  it  felt. 

I  make  no  self-praise  out  of  this :  if  feel- 
ing has  been  honestly  set  down,  it  is  only 
in  virtue  of  a  native  impulse,  over  which 


18 


o 


DREAM-LIFE 


I  have  altogether  too  little  control;  but  if 
it  is  set  down  badly,  I  have  wronged  Na- 
ture, and  (as  Nature  is  kind),  I  have 
wronged  myself. 

A  great  many  inquisitive  people  will,  I 
do  not  doubt,  be  asking  after  all  this  pre- 
lude, if  my  pictures  are  true  pictures  ?  The 
question — the  courteous  reader  will  allow 
me  to  say — is  an  impertinent  one.  It  is 
but  a  shabby  truth  that  wants  an  author's 
affidavit  to  make  it  trustworthy.  I  shall 
not  help  my  story  by  any  such  poor  support. 
If  there  are  not  enough  elements  of  truth, 
honesty  and  nature  in  my  pictures  to  make 
them  believed,  they  shall  have  no  oath  of 
mine  to  bolster  them  up. 

I  have  been  a  sufferer  in  this  way  before 
now ;  and  a  little  book  that  I  had  the  whim 
to  publish  a  year  since  has  been  set  down 
by  many  as  an  arrant  piece  of  imposture. 
Claiming  sympathy  as  a  bachelor,  I  have 
been  recklessly  set  down  as  a  cold  unde- 
serving man  of  family!  My  story  of 
troubles  and  loves  has  been  sneered  at,  as 
the  sheerest  gammon. 

But  among  this  crowd  of  cold-blooded 
critics,  it  was  pleasant  to  hear  of  one  or  two 
pursy  old  fellows  who  railed  at  me,  for  win- 
ning the  affections  of  a  sweet  Italian  girl, 


n 


u 


WITH    MY   READER  19 

M 

and  then  leaving  her  to  pine  in  discontent! 
Yet  in  the  face  of  this,  an  old  companion 
of  mine  in  Rome — with  whom  I  accidentally 
met  the  other  day — wondered  how  on  earth 
I  could  have  made  so  tempting  a  story  out 
of  the  matronly  and  black-haired  spinster, 
with  whom  I  happened  to  be  quartered  in 
the  Eternal  City ! 

I  shall  leave  my  critics  to  settle  such  dif- 
ferences between  themselves ;  and  consider 
it  far  better  to  bear  with  slanders  from  both 
sides  of  the  house,  than  to  bewray  the  pretty 
tenderness  of  the  pursy  old  gentlemen,  or 
to  cast  a  doubt  upon  the  practical  testimony 
of  my  quondam  companion.  Both  give  me  i 
high  and  judicious  compliment — all  the  j 
more  grateful  because  only  half  deserved,  j 
For  I  never  yet  was  conscious — alas,  that 
the  confession  should  be  forced  from  me ! — 
of  winning  the  heart  of  any  maiden  whether 
native  or  Italian ;  and  as  for  such  delicacy 
of  imagination  as  to  work  up  a  lovely  dam- 
sel out  of  the  withered  remnant  that  forty 
odd  years  of  Italian  life  can  spare,  I  can 
assure  my  middle-aged  friends  (and  it  may 
serve  as  a  caveat)  I  can  lay  no  claim  to 
it  whatever. 

The  trouble  has  been,   that  those  who 
have  believed  one  passage  have  discredited 


9 


20  DREAM-LIFE 

another;  and  those  who  have  sympathized 
with  me  in  trifles,  have  deserted  me  when 
affairs  grew  earnest.  I  have  had  sympathy 
enough  with  my  married  griefs;  but  when 
it  came  to  the  perplexing  torments  of  my 
single  life — not  a  fellow-weeper  could  I 
find! 

I  would  suggest  to  those  who  intend  to 
believe  only  half  of  my  present  book,  that 
they  exercise  a  little  discretion  in  their 
choice.  I  am  not  fastidious  in  the  matter ; 
and  only  ask  them  to  believe  what  counts 
most  toward  the  goodness  of  humanity,  and 
to  discredit — if  they  will  persist  in  it — 
only  what  tells  badly  for  our  common  na- 
ture. The  man  or  the  woman,  who  believes 
well,  is  apt  to  work  well ;  and  faith  is  as 
much  the  key  to  happiness  here,  as  it  is  the 
key  to  happiness  hereafter. 

I  have  only  one  thing  more  to  say,  be- 
fore I  get  upon  my  story.  A  great  many 
sharp-eyed  people,  who  have  a  horror  of 
light  reading — by  which  they  mean  what- 
ever does  not  make  mention  of  stocks,  cot- 
tons, or  moral  homilies — will  find  much 
fault  with  my  book  for  its  ephemeral  char- 
acter. 

I  am  sorry  that  I  can  not  gratify  such : 
homilies  are  not  at  all  in  my  habit;  and  it 


WITH    MY  READER 


21 


0 


one  chance  of  driving  it  home.  For  my 
own  part,  I  count  it  a  great  deal  better 
philosophy  to  fuse  it,  and  rarefy  it,  so  that 
it  shall  spread  out  into  every  crevice  of 
a  story,  and  give  a  color  and  a  taste,  as  it 
were,  to  the  whole  mass. 

I  know  there  are  very  good  people,  who, 
if  they  can  not  lay  their  finger  on  so  much 
doctrine  set  down  in  old-fashioned  phrase, 
will  never  get  an  inkling  of  it  at  all.  With 
such  people,  goodness  is  a  thing  of  under- 
standing, more  than  of  feeling ;  and  all  their 
morality  has  its  action  in  the  brain. 

God  forbid  that  I  should  sneer  at  this  ter- 
rible infirmity,  which  Providence  has  seen 
fit  to  inflict:  God  forbid,  too,  that  I  should 
not  be  grateful  to  the  same  kind  Providence, 
for  bestowing  upon  others  among  his  crea- 
tures a  more  genial  apprehension  of  true 
goodness,  and  a  hearty  sympathy  with 
every  shade  of  human  kindness. 

But  in  all  this,  I  am  not  making  out  a 
case  for  my  own  correct  teaching,  or  insin- 
uating the  propriety  of  my  tone.  I  shall 
leave  the  book  in  this  regard,  to  speak  for 
itself;  and  whoever  feels  himself  growing 


22 


DREAM-LIFE 


worse  for  the  reading,  I  advise  to  lay  it 
down.  It  will  be  harmless  on  the  shelf, 
however  it  may  be  in  the  hand. 

I  shall  lay  no  claim  to  the  title  of  moralist, 
teacher,  or  romancist:  my  thoughts  start 
pleasant  pictures  to  my  mind ;  and  in  a  gar- 
rulous humor,  I  put  my  finger  in  the  button- 
hole of  my  indulgent  friend,  and  tell  him 
some  of  them — giving  him  leave  to  quit  me 
whenever  he  chooses. 

Or,  if  a  lady  is  my  listener,  let  her  fancy 
me  only  an  honest,  simple-hearted  fellow, 
whose  familiarities  are  so  innocent  that  she 
can  pardon  them;  taking  her  hand  in  his, 
and  talking  on;  sometimes  looking  in  her 
eyes,  and  then  looking  into  the  sunshine 
for  relief;  sometimes  prosy  with  narrative, 
and  then  sharpening  up  my  matter  with  a 
few  touches  of  honest  pathos ;  let  her  imag- 
ine this,  I  say,  and  we  may  become  the 
most  excellent  friends  in  the  world. 


:   -  ,:-.          ,  "  ;::i;^;.?.. 


OR 

DREAMS  OF 

U^ 


-^^ .       vWfmtr*' .  ~~^  ~~     ^3^=^^'" 


SPRING 


THE  old  chroniclers  made  the  year  begin 
in  the  season  of  frosts :  and  they  have 
launched  us  upon  the  current  of  the  months, 
from  the  snowy  banks  of  January.  I  love 
better  to  count  time  from  spring  to  spring; 
it  seems  to  me  for  more  cheerful  to  reckon 
the  year  by  blossoms  than  by  blight. 

Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre,  in  his  sweet 
story  of  Virginia,  makes  the  bloom  of  the 
cocoa-tree,  or  the  growth  of  the  banana,  a 
yearly  and  a  loved  monitor  of  the  passage 
of  her  life.  How  cold  and  cheerless  in  the 
comparison  would  be  the  icy-chronology 
of  the  North;  so  many  years  have  I  seen 
the  lakes  locked,  and  the  foliage  die ! 

The  budding  and  blooming  of  spring 
seem  to  belong  properly  to  the  opening  of 
the  months.  It  is  the  season  of  the  quickest 
expansion,  of  the  warmest  blood,  of  the 
readiest  growth;  it  is  the  boy-age  of  the 

25 


o 


26 


DREAM-LIFE 


year.  The  birds  sing  in  chorus  in  the 
spring — just  as  children  prattle ;  the  brooks 
run  full — like  the  overflow  of  young  hearts ; 
the  showers  drop  easily — as  young  tears 
flow ;  and  the  whole  sky  is  as  capricious  as 
the  mind  of  a  boy. 

Between  tears  and  smiles,  the  year  like 
the  child  struggles  into  the  warmth  of  life. 
The  old  year,  say  what  the  chronologists 
will,  lingers  upon  the  very  lap  of  spring; 
and  is  only  fairly  gone  when  the  blossoms 
of  April  have  strewn  their  pall  of  glory 
upon  his  tomb,  and  the  bluebirds  have 
chanted  his  requiem. 

It  always  seems  to  me  as  if  an  access  of 
life  came  with  the  melting  of  the  winter's 
snows ;  and  as  if  every  rootlet  of  grass  that 
lifted  its  first  green  blade  from  the  matted 
debris  of  the  old  year's  decay,  bore  my 
spirit  upon  it,  nearer  to  the  largess  of 
Heaven. 

I  love  to  trace  the  break  of  spring  step  by 
step :  I  love  even  those  long  rain-storms  that 
sap  the  icy  fortresses  of  the  lingering  win- 
ter; that  melt  the  snows  upon  the  hills, 
and  swell  the  mountain  brooks ;  that  make 
the  pools  heave  up  their  glassy  cerements 
of  ice,  and  hurry  down  the  crashing  frag- 
ments into  the  wastes  of  ocean. 


o 


SPRING  : 

I  love  the  gentle  thaws  that  you  can  trace, 
day  by  day,  by  the  stained  snow-banks, 
shrinking  from  the  grass ;  and  by  the  gentle 
drip  of  the  cottage  eaves.  I  love  to  search 
out  the  sunny  slopes  by  a  southern  wall, 
where  the  reflected  sun  does  double  duty  to 
the  earth,  and  where  the  frail  anemone,  or 
the  frail  blush  of  the  arbutus,  in  the  midst 
of  the  bleak  March  atmosphere,  will  touch 
your  heart,  like  a  hope  of  Heaven  in  a  field 
of  graves !  Later  come  those  soft  smoky 
days,  when  the  patches  of  winter  grain 
show  green  under  the  shelter  of  leafless 
woods,  and  the  last  snow-drifts,  reduced  to 
shrunken  skeletons  of  ice,  lie  upon  the  slope 
of  northern  hills,  leaking  away  their  life. 

Then  the  grass  at  your  door  grows  into 
the  color  of  the  sprouting  grain,  and  the 
buds  upon  the  lilacs  swell,  and  burst.  The 
peaches  bloom  upon  the  wall,  and  the  plums 
wear  bodices  of  white.  The  sparkling 
oriole  picks  string  for  his  hammock  on  the 
sycamore,  and  the  sparrows  twitter  in  pairs. 
The  old  elms  throw  down  their  dingy  flow- 
ers, and  color  their  spray  with  green ;  and 
the  brooks,  where  you  throw  your  worm  or 
the  minnow,  float  down  whole  fleets  of  the 
crimson  blossoms  of  the  maple.  Finally 
the  oaks  step  into  the  opening  quadrille  of 


o 


28 


DREAM-LIFE 


spring,  with  grayish  tufts  of  a  modest  ver- 
dure, which  by  and  by  will  be  long  and 
glossy  leaves.  The  dogwood  pitches  his 
broad  white  tent  in  the  edge  of  the  forest ; 
the  dandelions  lie  along  the  hillocks,  like 
stars  in  a  sky  of  green ;  and  the  wild  cherry, 
growing  in  all  the  hedgerows,  without  other 
culture  than  God's,  lifts  up  to  Him,  thank- 
fully, its  tremulous  white  ringers. 

Amid  all  this,  come  the  rich  rains  of 
spring.  The  affections  of  a  boy  grow  up 
with  tears  to  water  them ;  and  the  year 
blooms  with  showers.  But  the  clouds  hover 
over  an  April  sky,  timidly — like  shadows 
upon  innocence.  The  showers  come  gently, 
and  drop  daintily  to  the  earth — with  now 
and  then  a  glimpse  of  sunshine  to  make  the 
drops  bright — like  so  many  tears  of  joy. 

The  rain  of  winter  is  cold,  and  it  comes 
in  bitter  scuds  that  blind  you ;  but  the  rain 
of  April  steals  upon  you  coyly,  half  reluc- 
tantly— yet  lovingly — like  the  steps  of  a 
bride  to  the  altar. 

It  does  not  gather  like  the  storm-clouds 
of  winter,  gray  and  heavy  along  the  hori- 
zon, and  creep  with  subtle  and  insensible 
approaches  (like  age)  to  the  very  zenith; 
but  there  are  a  score  of  white-winged  swim- 
mers afloat,  that  your  eye  has  chased  as 


SPRING  29 

you  lay  fatigued  with  the  delicious  languor 
of  an  April  sun ;  nor  have  you  scarce  noticed 
that  a  little  bevy  of  those  floating  clouds 
had  grouped  together  in  the  somber  com- 
pany. But  presently  you  see  across  the 
fields  the  dark  gray  streaks,  stretching  like 
lines  of  mists,  from  the  green  bosom  of  the 
valley  to  that  spot  of  sky  where  the  com- 
pany of  clouds  is  loitering;  and  with  an 
easy  shifting  of  the  helm,  the  fleet  of  swim- 
mers come  drifting  over  you,  and  drop 
their  burden  into  the  dancing  pools,  and 
make  the  flowers  glisten,  and  the  eaves  drip 
with  their  crystal  bounty. 

The  cattle  linger  by  the  watercourses, 
cropping  eagerly  the  firstlings  of  the  grass ; 
and  childhood  laughs  joyously  at  the  warm 
rain ;  or  under  the  cottage  roof  catches  with 
eager  ear,  the  patter  of  its  fall. 

And  with  that  patter  on  the  roof — so  like 
to  the  patter  of  childish  feet — my  story  of 
boyish  dreams  shall  begin. 


RAIN  IN  THE  GARRET 

IT  is  an  old  garret  with  big  brown  raft- 
ers; and  the  boards  between  are  stained 
darkly  with  the  rain-storms  of  fifty  years. 
And  as  the  sportive  April  shower  quickens 
its  flood,  it  seems  as  if  its  torrents  would 
come  dashing  through  the  shingles  upon 
you,  and  upon  your  play.  But  it  will  not; 
for  you  know  that  the  old  roof  is  strong 
and  that  it  has  kept  you,  and  all  that  love 
you,  for  long  years  from  the  rain  and  from 
the  cold :  you  know  that  the  hardest  storms 
of  winter  will  only  make  a  little  oozing  leak, 
that  trickles  down  the  brown  stains — like 
tears. 

You  love  that  old  garret  roof;  and  you 
nestle  down  under  its  slope  with  a  sense  of 
its  protecting  power  that  no  castle  walls  can 
give  to  your  mature  years.  Aye,  your  heart 
clings  in  boyhood  to  the  rooftree  of  the  old 
family  garret  with  a  grateful  affection  and 
an  earnest  confidence,  that  the  after  years — 


RAIN   IN  THE   GARRET 


whatever  may  be  their  successes,  or  their 
honors — can  never  recreate.  Under  the 
rooftree  of  his  home  the  boy  feels  SAFE: 
and  where  in  the  whole  realm  of  life,  with 
its  bitter  toils  and  its  bitterer  temptations, 
will  he  feel  safe  again? 

But  this  you  do  not  know.  It  seems  only 
a  grand  old  place ;  and  it  is  capital  fun  to 
search  in  its  corners,  and  drag  out  some  bit 
of  quaint  old  furniture,  with  a  leg  broken, 
and  lay  a  cushion  across  it,  and  fix  your 
reins  upon  the  lion's  claws  of  the  feet,  and 
then — gallop  away !  And  you  offer  sister 
Nelly  a  chance,  if  she  will  be  good ;  and 
throw  out  very  patronizing  words  to  little 
Charlie,  who  is  mounted  upon  a  much 
humbler  horse — to  wit:  a  decrepit  nursery 
chair — as  he  of  right  should  be,  since  he  is 
three  years  your  junior. 

I  know  no  nobler  forage  ground  for  a 
romantic,  venturesome,  mischievous  boy 
than  the  garret  of  an  old  family  mansion, 
on  a  day  of  storm.  It  is  a  perfect  field  of 
chivalry.  The  heavy  rafters,  the  dashing 
rain,  the  piles  of  spare  mattresses  to  carouse 
upon,  the  big  trunks  to  hide  in,  the  old 
white  coats  and  hats  hanging  in  obscure 
corners,  like  ghosts — are  great!  And  it  is 
so  far  away  from  the  old  lady  who  keeps 


$2  DREAM-LIFE 

rule  in  the  nursery  that  there  is  no  possible 
risk  of  a  scolding  for  twisting  off  the  fringe 
of  the  rug.  There  is  no  baby  in  the  garret 
to  wake  up.  There  is  no  "company"  in  the 
garret  to  be  disturbed  by  the  noise.  There 
is  no  crochety  old  uncle,  or  grandma,  with 
their  everlasting,  "Boys — boys !"  and  then  a 
look  of  such  horror ! 

There  is  great  fun  in  groping  through 
a  tall  barrel  of  books  and  pamphlets,  on  the 
lookout  for  startling  pictures  ;  and  there  are 
chestnuts  in  the  garret,  drying,  which  you 
have  discovered  on  the  ledge  of  the  chim- 
ney; and  you  slide  a  few  into  your  pocket, 
and  munch  them  quietly — giving  now  and 
then  one  to  Nelly,  and  begging  her  to  keep 
silent ;  for  you  have  a  great  fear  of  its  being 
forbidden  fruit. 

Old  family  garrets  have  their  stock,  as  I 
said,  of  castaway  clothes  of  twenty  years 
gone  by;  and  it  is  a  rare  sport  to  put  them 
on;  buttoning  in  a  pillow  or  two  for  the 
sake  of  good  fulness ;  and  then  to  trick  out 
Nelly  in  some  strange-shaped  head-gear, 
and  old-fashioned  brocade  petticoat  caught 
up  with  pins  ;  and  in  such  guise,  to  steal  cau- 
tiously down-stairs,  and  creep  slyly  into  the 
sitting-room — half  afraid  of  a  scolding,  and 
very  sure  of  good  fun ;  trying  to  look  very 


9 

I 
/ 

i 


RAIN    IN    THE   GARRET 


33 


sober,  and  yet  almost  ready  to  die  with 
the  laugh  that  you  know  you  will  make. 
And  your  mother  tries  to  look  harshly  at 
little  Nelly  for  putting  on  her  grand- 
mother's best  bonnet ;  but  Nelly's  laughing 
eyes  forbid  it  utterly ;  and  the  mother  spoils 
all  her  scolding  with  a  perfect  shower  of 
kisses. 

After  this,  you  go  marching,  very  stately, 
into  the  nursery,  and  utterly  amaze  the  old 
nurse ;  and  make  a  deal  of  wonderment  for 
the  staring,  half-frightened  baby,  who  drops 
his  rattle,  and  makes  a  bob  at  you,  as  if  he 
would  jump  into  your  waistcoat  pocket. 

But  you  grow  tired  of  this ;  you  tire 
even  of  the  swing,  and  of  the  pranks  of 
Charlie ;  and  you  glide  away  into  a  corner, 
with  an  old  dog-eared  copy  of  Robinson 
Crusoe.  And  you  grow  heart  and  soul  into 
the  story,  until  you  tremble  for  the  poor  fel- 
low with  his  guns,  behind  the  palisade ;  and 
are  yourself  half  dead  with  fright  when 
you  peep  cautiously  over  the  hill  with  your 
glass,  and  see  the  cannibals  at  their  orgies 
around  the  fire. 

Yet,  after  all,  you  think  the  old  fellow 
must  have  had  a  capital  time,  with  a  whole 
island  to  himself ;  and  you  think  you  would 
like  such  a  time  yourself,  if  only  Nelly 


34  DREAM-LIFE 

and  Charlie  could  be  there  with  you.  But 
this  thought  does  not  come  till  afterward; 
for  the  time,  you  are  nothing  but  Crusoe; 
you  are  living  in  his  cave  with  Poll  the 
parrot,  and  are  looking  out  for  your  goats 
and  man  Friday. 

You  dream  what  a  nice  thing  it  would 
be  for  you  to  slip  away  some  pleasant 
morning — not  to  York,  as  young  Crusoe 
did,  but  to  New  York — and  take  passage  as 
a  sailor;  and  how,  if  they  knew  you  were 
going,  there  would  be  such  a  world  of  good- 
bys;  and  how,  if  they  did  not  know  it, 
there  would  be  such  a  world  of  wonder ! 

And  then  the  sailor's  dress  would  be  alto- 
gether such  a  jaunty  affair ;  and  it  would 
be  such  rare  sport  to  lie  off  upon  the  yards 
far  aloft,  as  you  have  seen  sailors  in  pic- 
tures, looking  out  upon  the  blue  and  tum- 
bling sea.  No  thought  now  in  your  boyish 
dreams,  of  sleety  storms,  and  cables  stiffened 
with  ice,  and  crashing  spars,  and  great  ice- 
bergs towering  fearfully  around  you ! 

You  would  have  better  luck  than  even 
Crusoe;  you  would  save  a  compass,  and  a 
Bible,  and  stores  of  hatchets,  and  the  cap- 
tain's dog,  and  great  puncheons  of  sweet- 
meats (which  Crusoe  altogether  over- 
looked) ;  and  you  would  save  a  tent  or  two, 


^          ^ 


RAIN    IN    THE   GARRET 


35 


which  you  could  set  up  on  the  shore,  and  an 
American  flag,  and  a  small  piece  of  cannon, 
which  you  could  fire  as  often  as  you  liked. 
At  night,  you  would  sleep  in  a  tree — though 
you  wonder  how  Crusoe  did  it — and  would 
say  the  prayers  you  had  been  taught  to  say 
at  home,  and  fall  to  sleep — dreaming  of 
Nelly  and  Charlie. 

At  sunrise,  or  thereabouts,  you  would 
come  down,  feeling  very  much  refreshed ; 
and  make  a  very  nice  breakfast  off  of 
smoked  herring  and  sea-bread,  with  a  little 
currant  jam,  and  a  few  oranges.  After  this 
you  would  haul  ashore  a  chest  or  two  of 
the  sailors'  clothes,  and  putting  a  few  large 
jack-knives  in  your  pocket,  would  take  a 
stroll  over  the  island,  and  dig  a  cave  some- 
where, and  roll  in  a  cask  or  two  of  sea- 
bread.  And  you  fancy  yourself  growing 
after  a  time  very  tall  and  corpulent,  and 
wearing  a  magnificent  goatskin  cap,  trimmed 
with  green  ribbons,  and  set  off  with  a 
plume.  You  think  you  would  have  put  a 
few  more  guns  in  the  palisades  than  Crusoe 
did,  and  charged  them  with  a  little  more 
grape. 

After  a  long  while  you  fancy  a  ship 
would  arrive,  which  would  carry  you  back; 
and  you  count  upon  a  very  great  surprise 


36  DREAM-LIFE 

on  the  part  of  your  father  and  little  Nelly, 
as  you  march  up  to  the  door  of  the  old 
family  mansion,  with  plenty  of  gold  in  your 
pocket,  and  a  small  bag  of  cocoanuts  for 
Charlie,  and  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasant 
talk  about  your  island  far  away  in  the 
South  Seas. 

Or,  perhaps  it  is  not  Crusoe  at  all,  that 
your  eyes  and  your  heart  cling  to,  but  only 
some  little  story  about  Paul  and  Virginia ; 
that  dear  little  Virginia!  how  many  tears 
have  been  shed  over  her — not  in  garrets 
only,  or  by  boys  only! 

You  would  have  liked  Virginia — you 
know  you  would  ;  but  you  perfectly  hate  the 
beldame  aunt,  who  sent  for  her  to  come  to 
France ;  you  think  she  must  have  been  like 
the  old  schoolmistress,  who  occasionally 
boxes  your  ears  with  the  cover  of  the  spell- 
ing-book, or  makes  you  wear  one  of  the 
girl's  bonnets,  that  smells  strongly  of  paste- 
board and  calico. 

As  for  black  Domingue,  you  think  he  was 
a  capital  old  fellow ;  and  you  think  more  of 
him,  and  his  bananas,  than  you  do  of  the 
bursting  throbbing  heart  of  poor  Paul.  As 
yet,  Dream-life  does  not  take  hold  on  love. 
A  little  maturity  of  heart  is  wanted  to  make 
up  what  the  poets  call  sensibility.  If  love 


RAIN    IN    THE   GARRET 


n 


37 


should  come  to  be  a  dangerous,  chivalric 
matter,  as  in  the  case  of  Helen  Mar  and 
Wallace,  you  can  very  easily  conceive  of  it, 
and  can  take  hold  of  all  the  little  acces- 
sories of  male  costume  and  embroidering 
of  banners ;  but  as  for  pure  sentiment,  such 
as  lies  in  the  sweet  story  of  Bernardin  de 
St.  Pierre,  it  is  quite  beyond  you. 

The  rich  soft  nights,  in  which  one  might 
doze  in  his  hammock,  watching  the  play  of 
the  silvery  moonbeams  upon  the  orange 
leaves  and  upon  the  waves,  you  can  under- 
stand; and  you  fall  to  dreaming  of  that 
lovely  Isle  of  France,  and  wondering  if 
Virginia  did  not  perhaps  have  some  rela- 
tions on  the  island,  who  raise  pineapples, 
and  such  sort  of  things,  still? 

And  so,  with  your  head  upon  your  hand 
in  your  quiet  garret  corner,  over  some 
such  beguiling  story,  your  thought  leans 
away  from  the  book,  into  your  own  dreamy 
cruise  over  the  sea  of  life. 


II 


SCHOOL  DREAMS 

IT  is  a  proud  thing  to  go  out  from  under 
the  realm  of  a  schoolmistress,  and  to  be  en- 
rolled in  a  company  of  boys  who  are  under 
the  guidance  of  a  master.  It  is  one  of  the 
earliest  steps  of  worldly  pride,  which  has 
before  it  a  long  and  tedious  ladder  of  as- 
cent. Even  the  advice  of  the  old  mistress, 
and  the  nine-penny  book  that  she  thrusts 
into  your  hand  as  a  parting  gift,  pass  for 
nothing;  and  her  kiss  of  adieu,  if  she  ten- 
ders it  in  the  sight  of  your  fellows,  will 
call  up  an  angry  rush  of  blood  to  the  cheek, 
that  for  long  years  shall  drown  all  sense 
of  its  kindness. 

You  have  looked  admiringly  many  a  day 
upon  the  tall  fellows  who  play  at  the  door 
of  Doctor  Bidlow's  school ;  you  have  looked 
with  reverence,  second  only  to  that  felt  for 
the  old  village  church,  upon  its  dark-looking 
heavy  brick  walls.  It  seemed  to  be  redolent 
of  learning;  and  stopping  at  times,  to  gaze 

38 


Q 


SCHOOL   DREAMS  39 

upon  the  gallipots  and  broken  retorts  at 
the  second-story  window,  you  have  pon- 
dered in  your  boyish  way  upon  the  in- 
scrutable wonders  of  science,  and  the  in- 
effable dignity  of  Doctor  Bidlow's  brick 
school ! 

Doctor  Bidlow  seems  to  you  to  belong  to 
a  race  of  giants ;  and  yet  he  is  a  spare  thin 
man,  with  a  hooked  nose,  a  large,  flat,  gold 
watch  key,  a  crack  in  his  voice,  a  wig,  and 
very  dirty  wristbands.  Still  you  stand  in 
awe  at  the  mere  sight  of  him ;  an  awe  that 
is  very  much  encouraged  by  a  report  made 
to  you  by  a  small  boy,  that  "Old  Bid" 
keeps  a  large  ebony  ruler  in  his  desk.  You 
are  amazed  at  the  small  boy's  audacity:  it 
astonishes  you  that  any  one  who  had  ever 
smelled  the  strong  fumes  of  sulphur  and 
ether  in  the  doctor's  room,  and  had  seen 
him  turn  red  vinegar  blue  (as  they  say  he 
does),  should  call  him  "Old  Bid!" 

You,  however,  come  very  little  under  his 
control;  you  enter  upon  the  proud  life,  in 
the  small  boy's  department,  under  the  do- 
minion of  the  English  master.  He  is  a 
different  personage  from  Doctor  Bidlow ;  he 
is  a  dapper  little  man,  who  twinkles  his  eye 
in  a  peculiar  fashion,  and  who  has  a  way 
of  marching  about  the  schoolroom  with  his 


40  DREAM-LIFE 

hands  crossed  behind  him,  giving  a  playful 
flirt  to  his  coat-tails.  He  wears  a  pen  tucked 
behind  his  ear;  his  hair  is  carefully  set  up 
at  the  sides  and  upon  the  top,  to  conceal 
(as  you  think  later  in  life)  his  diminutive 
height;  and  he  steps  very  springily  around 
behind  the  benches,  glancing  now  and  then 
at  the  books — cautioning  one  scholar  about 
his  dog's-ears,  and  startling  another  from 
a  doze  by  a  very  loud  and  odious  snap  of 
his  forefinger  upon  the  boy's  head. 

At  other  times  he  sticks  a  hand  in  the 
armlet  of  his  waistcoat:  he  brandishes  in 
the  other  a  thickish  bit  of  smooth  cherry- 
wood — sometimes  dressing  his  hair  withal ; 
and  again,  giving  his  head  a  slight  scratch 
behind  the  ear,  while  he  takes  occasion  at 
the  same  time,  for  an  oblique  glance  at  a  fat 
boy  in  the  corner,  who  is  reaching  down 
from  his  seat  after  a  little  paper  pellet  that 
has  just  been  discharged  at  him  from  some 
unknown  quarter.  The  master  steals  very 
cautiously  and  quickly  to  the  rear  of  the 
stooping  boy — dreadfully  exposed  by  his 
unfortunate  position  and  inflicts  a  stinging 
blow.  A  weak-eyed  little  scholar  on  the 
next  bench  ventures  a  modest  titter;  at 
which  the  assistant  makes  a  significant  mo- 
tion with  his  ruler — on  the  seat,  as  it  were, 


o 


SCHOOL   DREAMS  4! 

of  an  imaginary  pair  of  pantaloons — which 
renders  the  weak-eyed  boy  on  a  sudden 
very  insensible  to  the  recent  joke. 

You,  meantime,  profess  to  be  very  much 
engrossed  in  your  grammar — turned  upside 
down ;  you  think  it  must  have  hurt,  and  are 
only  sorry  that  it  did  not  happen  to  a  tall 
dark-faced  boy  who  cheated  you  in  a  swap 
of  jack-knives.  You  innocently  think  that 
he  must  be  a  very  bad  boy;  and  fancy — 
aided  by  a  suggestion  of  the  old  nurse  at 
home,  on  the  same  point — that  he  will  one 
day  come  to  the  gallows. 

There  is  a  platform  on  one  side  of  the 
schoolroom,  where  the  teacher  sits  at  a  little 
red  table,  and  they  have  a  tradition  among 
the  boys,  that  a  pin  properly  bent,  was  one 
day  put  into  the  chair  of  the  English  master, 
and  that  he  did  not  wear  his  hand  in  the 
armlet  of  his  waistcoat  for  two  whole  days 
thereafter.  Yet  his  air  of  dignity  seems 
proper  enough  in  a  man  of  such  erudition, 
and  such  grasp  of  imagination,  as  he  must 
possess.  For  he  can  quote  poetry — some  of 
the  big  scholars  have  heard  him  do  it;  he 
can  parse  the  whole  of  Paradise  Lost; 
and  he  can  cipher  in  Long  Division  and  the 
Rule  of  Three,  as  if  it  was  all  simple  addi- 
tion; and  then,  such  a  hand  as  he  writes, 


i    ^         £ 


o 


42  DREAM-LIFE 

and  such  a  superb  capital  B !  It  is  hard  to 
understand  how  he  does  it. 

Sometimes,  lifting  the  lid  of  your  desk, 
where  you  pretend  to  be  very  busy  with 
your  papers,  you  steal  the  reading  of  some 
brief  passage  of  Lazy  Lawrence,  or  of  the 
Hungarian  Brothers,  and  muse  about  it 
for  hours  afterward,  to  the  great  detriment 
of  your  ciphering;  or,  deeply  lost  in  the 
story  of  the  Scottish  Chiefs,  you  fall  to 
comparing  such  villains  as  Menteith  with 
the  stout  boys  who  tease  you ;  and  you  only 
wish  they  could  come  within  reach  of  the 
fierce  Kirkpatrick's  claymore. 

But  you  are  frighted  out  of  this  stolen 
reading  by  a  circumstance  that  stirs  your 
young  blood  very  strangely.  The  master 
is  looking  very  sourly  on  a  certain  morning, 
and  has  caught  sight  of  the  little  weak-eyed 
boy  over  beyond  you,  reading  Roderick 
Random.  He  sends  out  for  a  long  birch 
rod,  and  having  trimmed  off  the  leaves  care- 
fully— with  a  glance  or  two  in  your  direc- 
tion— he  marches  up  behind  the  bench  of 
the  poor  culprit — who  turns  deathly  pale — 
grapples  him  by  the  collar,  drags  him  out 
over  the  desks,  his  limbs  dangling  in  a 
shocking  way  against  the  sharp  angles,  and 
having  him  fairly  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 


9 


SCHOOL   DREAMS 


43 


O 


clenches  his  rod  with  a  new,  and,  as  it  seems 
to  you,  a  very  sportive  grip. 

You  shudder  fearfully. 

"Please  don't  whip  me,"  says  the  boy, 
whimpering. 

"Aha !"  says  the  smirking  pedagogue, 
bringing  down  the  stick  with  a  quick  sharp 
cut,  "you  don't  like  it,  eh?" 

The  poor  fellow  screams,  and  struggles  to 
escape;  but  the  blows  come  faster  and 
thicker.  The  blood  tingles  in  your  finger- 
ends  with  indignation. 

"Please  don't  strike  me  again,"  says  the 
boy,  sobbing  and  taking  breath,  as  he 
writhes  about  the  legs  of  the  master;  "I 
won't  read  another  time." 

"Ah,  you  won't,  sir — won't  you?  I  don't 
mean  you  shall,  sir,"  and  the  blows  fall  thick 
and  fast — until  the  poor  fellow  crawls  back, 
utterly  crestfallen  and  heartsick,  to  sob  over 
his  books. 

You  grow  into  a  sudden  boldness ;  you 
wish  you  were  only  large  enough  to  beat 
the  master ;  you  know  such  treatment  would 
make  you  miserable ;  you  shudder  at  the 
thought  of  it ;  you  do  not  believe  he  would 
dare ;  you  know  the  other  boy  has  got  no 
father.  This  seems  to  throw  a  new  light 
upon  the  matter,  but  it  only  intensifies  your 


Q 


44  DREAM-LIFE 

indignation.  You  are  sure  that  no  father 
would  suffer  it;  or  if  you  thought  so,  it 
would  sadly  weaken  your  love  for  him. 
You  pray  Heaven  that  it  may  never  be 
brought  to  such  proof. 

Let  a  boy  once  distrust  this  love  or  ten- 
derness of  his  parents,  and  the  last  resort 
of  his  yearning  affections — so  far  as  the 
world  goes — is  utterly  gone.  He  is  in  the 
sure  road  to  a  bitter  fate.  His  heart  will 
take  on  fa  hard  iron  covering,  that  will  flash 
out  plenty  of  fire  in  his  after  contact  with 
the  world,  but  it  will  never — never  melt. 

There  are  some  tall  trees  that  overshadow 
an  angle  of  the  schoolhouse ;  and  the  larger 
scholars  play  some  very  surprising  gym- 
nastic tricks  upon  their  lower  limbs :  one 
boy,  for  instance,  will  hang  for  an  incredible 
length  of  time  by  his  feet  with  his  head 
down;  and  when  you  tell  Charlie  of  it  at 
night,  with  such  additions  as  your  boyish 
imagination  can  contrive,  the  old  nurse  is 
shocked  and  states  very  gravely  that  it  is 
dangerous;  and  that  the  blood  all  runs  to 
the  head,  and  sometimes  bursts  out  of  the 
eyes  and  mouth.  You  look  at  that  par- 
ticular boy  with  astonishment  afterward; 
and  expect  to  see  him  some  day  burst  into 


o 


n 


SCHOOL   DREAMS 


45 


bleeding  from  the  nose  and  ears,  and  flood 
the  schoolroom  benches. 

In  time,  however,  you  get  to  performing 
some  modest  experiments  yourself  upon  the 
very  lowest  limbs — taking  care  to  avoid  the 
observation  of  the  larger  boys,  who  else 
might  laugh  at  you ;  you  especially  avoid 
the  notice  of  one  stout  fellow  in  pea-green 
breeches,  who  is  a  sort  of  "bully"  among 
the  small  boys,  and  who  delights  in  kicking 
your  marbles  about,  very  accidentally.  He 
has  a  fashion,  too,  of  twisting  his  handker- 
chief into  what  he  calls  a  "snapper,"  with 
a  knot  at  the  end,  and  cracking  at  you  with 
it,  very  much  to  the  irritation  of  your  spir- 
its and  of  your  legs. 

Sometimes,  when  he  has  brought  you  to 
an  angry  burst  of  tears,  he  will  very  gra- 
ciously force  upon  you  the  handkerchief, 
and  insist  upon  your  cracking  him  in  re- 
turn; which,  as  you  know  nothing  about 
his  effective  method  of  making  the  knot 
bite,  is  a  very  harmless  proposal  on  his  part. 

But  you  have  still  stronger  reason  to  re- 
member that  boy.  There  are  trees,  as  I  said, 
near  the  school ;  and  you  get  the  reputation 
after  a  time  of  a  good  climber.  One  day 
you  are  well  in  the  tops  of  the  trees,  and 


o 


46  DREAM-LIFE 

being  dared  by  the  boys  below,  you  venture 
higher — higher  than  any  boy  has  ever  gone 
before.  You  feel  very  proudly,  but  just  then 
catch  sight  of  the  sneering  face  of  your  old 
enemy  of  the  snapper ;  and  he  dares  you  to 
go  upon  a  limb  that  he  points  out. 

The  rest  say — for  you  hear  them  plainly 
— "it  won't  bear  him."  And  Frank,  a  great 
friend  of  yours,  shouts  loudly  to  you  not 
to  try. 

"Pho,"  says  your  tormentor,  "the  little 
coward !" 

If  you  could  whip  him,  you  would  go 
down  the  tree  and  do  it  willingly;  as  it  is, 
you  can  not  let  him  triumph ;  so  you  ad- 
vance cautiously  upon  the  limb ;  it  bends 
and  sways  fearfully  with  your  weight ;  pres- 
ently it  cracks ;  you  try  to  return,  but  it  is 
too  late;  you  feel  yourself  going — your 
mind  flashes  home — over  your  life — your 
hope — your  fate,  like  lightning ;  then  comes 
a  sense  of  dizziness — a  succession  of  quick 
blows,  and  a  dull  heavy  crash ! 

You  are  conscious  of  nothing  again,  until 
you  find  yourself  in  the  great  hall  of  the 
school,  covered  with  blood,  the  old  doctor 
standing  over  you  with  a  phial,  and  Frank 
kneeling  by  you  and  holding  your  shattered 
arm,  which  has  been  broken  by  the  fall. 


o 


SCHOOL  DREAMS  47 

After  this  come  those  long  weary  days 
of  confinement,  when  you  lie  still,  through 
all  the  hours  of  noon,  looking  out  upon  the 
cheerful  sunshine  only  through  the  win- 
dows of  your  little  room.  Yet  it  seems  a 
grand  thing  to  have  the  whole  household 
attendant  upon  you.  The  doors  are  opened 
and  shut  softly,  and  they  all  step  noiselessly 
about  your  chamber ;  and  when  you  groan 
with  pain,  you  are  sure  of  meeting  sad 
sympathizing  looks.  Your  mother  will  step 
gently  to  your  side  and  lay  her  cool  white 
hand  upon  your  forehead ;  and  little  Nelly 
will  gaze  at  you  from  the  foot  of  your  bed 
with  a  sad  earnestness,  and  with  tears  of 
pity  in  her  soft  hazel  eyes.  And  afterward, 
as  your  pain  passes  away,  she  will  bring 
you  her  prettiest  books,  and  fresh  flowers, 
and  whatever  she  knows  you  will  love. 

But  it  is  dreadful  when  you  wake  at 
night  from  your  feverish  slumber,  and  see 
nothing  but  the  spectral  shadows  that  the 
sick-lamp  upon  the  hearth  throws  aslant 
the  walls;  and  hear  nothing  but  the  heavy 
breathing  of  the  old  nurse  in  the  easy 
chair,  and  the  ticking  of  the  clock  upon  the 
mantel !  Then  silence  and  the  night  crowd 
upon  your  soul  drearily.  But  your  thought 
is  active.  It  shapes  at  your  bedside  the 


48  DREAM-LIFE      - 

loved  figure  of  your  mother,  or  it  calls  up 
the  whole  company  of  Doctor  Bidlow's 
boys ;  and  weeks  of  study,  or  of  play,  group 
like  magic  on  your  quickened  vision ;  then  a 
twinge  of  pain  will  call  again  the  dreariness, 
and  your  head  tosses  upon  the  pillow,  and 
your  eye  searches  the  gloom  vainly  for 
pleasant  faces ;  and  your  fears  brood  on  that 
drearier  coming  night  of  Death — far  long- 
er, and  far  more  cheerless  than  this. 

But  even  here  the  memory  of  some  little 
prayer  you  have  been  taught,  which  prom- 
ises a  morning  after  the  night,  comes  to 
your  throbbing  brain ;  and  its  murmur  on 
your  fevered  lips,  as  you  breathe  it,  soothes 
like  a  caress  of  angels,  and  woos  you  to 
smiles  and  sleep. 

As  the  days  pass,  you  grow  stronger ;  and 
Frank  comes  in  to  tell  you  of  the  school,  and 
that  your  old  tormentor  has  been  expelled ; 
and  you  grow  into  a  strong  friendship  with 
Frank,  and  you  think  of  yourselves  as  a 
new  Damon  and  Pythias,  and  that  you  will 
some  day  live  together  in  a  fine  house,  with 
plenty  of  horses,  and  plenty  of  chestnut 
trees.  Alas,  the  boy  counts  little  on  those 
later  and  bitter  fates  of  life,  which  sever  his 
early  friendships,  like  wisps  of  straw ! 

At  other  times,  with  your  eye  upon  the 


0 


o 

SCHOOL  DREAMS  49 

sleek  trim  figure  of  the  doctor,  and  upon  his 
huge  bunch  of  watch  seals,  you  think  you 
will  some  day  be  a  doctor;  and  that  with  a 
wife  and  children,  and  a  respectable  gig, 
and  gold  watch,  with  seals  to  match,  you 
would  needs  be  a  very  happy  fellow. 

And  with  such  fancies  drifting  on  your 
thought,  you  count  for  the  hundredth  time 
the  figures  upon  the  curtains  of  your  bed ; 
you  trace  out  the  flower  wreaths  upon  the 
paper  hangings  of  your  room ;  your  eyes 
rest  idly  on  the  cat  playing  with  the  fringe 
of  the  curtain ;  you  see  your  mother  sitting 
with  her  needlework  beside  the  fire ;  you 
watch  the  sunbeams  as  they  drift  along 
the  carpet,  from  morning  until  noon ;  and 
from  noon  till  night,  you  watch  them  play- 
ing on  the  leaves,  and  dropping  spangles  on 
the  lawn;  and  as  you  watch — you  dream. 


Ill 

BOY    SENTIMENT 

WEEKS  and  even  years  of  your  boyhood 
roll  on,  in  which  your  dreams  are  growing 
wider  and  grander — even  as  the  spring, 
which  I  have  made  the  type  of  the  boy-age, 
is  stretching  its  foliage  farther  and  farther, 
and  dropping  longer  and  heavier  shadows 
on  the  land. 

Nelly,  that  sweet  sister,  has  grown  into 
your  heart  strangely ;  and  you  think  that 
all  they  write  in  their  books  about  love,  can 
not  equal  your  fondness  for  little  Nelly.  She 
is  pretty,  they  say ;  but  what  do  you  care 
for  her  prettiness  ?  She  is  so  good,  so  kind, 
so  watchful  of  all  your  wants,  so  willing 
to  yield  to  your  haughty  claims ! 

But,  alas,  it  is  only  when  this  sisterly  love 
is  lost  forever — only  when  the  inexorable 
world  separates  a  family  and  tosses  it  upon 
the  waves  of  fate  to  wide-lying  distance — 
perhaps  to  graves ! — that  a  man  feels,  what 
50 


BOY   SENTIMENT  5! 

a  boy  can  never  know,  the  disinterested 
and  abiding  affection  of  a  sister. 

All  this  that  I  have  set  down  comes  back 
to  you  long  afterward,  when  you  recall 
with  tears  of  regret  your  reproachful 
words,  or  some  swift  outbreak  of  passion. 

Little  Madge  is  a  friend  of  Nelly's — a 
mischievous  blue-eyed  hoyden.  They  tease 
you  about  Madge.  You  do  not  of  course 
care  one  straw  for  her,  but  yet  it  is  rather 
pleasant  to  be  teased  thus.  Nelly  never 
does  this ;  oh,  no,  not  she.  I  do  not  know 
but  in  the  age  of  childhood  the  sister  is 
jealous  of  the  affections  of  a  brother,  and 
would  keep  his  heart  wholly  at  home,  until 
suddenly,  and  strangely,  she  finds  her  own 
wandering. 

But,  after  all,  Madge  is  pretty ;  and  there 
is  something  taking  in  her  name.  Old  peo- 
ple, and  very  precise  people,  call  her  Mar- 
garet Boyne.  But  you  do  not;  it  is  only 
plain  Madge ;  it  sounds  like  her — very  rapid 
and  mischievous.  It  would  be  the  most 
absurd  thing  in  the  world  for  you  to  like 
her,  for  she  teases  you  in  innumerable  ways : 
she  laughs  at  your  big  shoes  (such  a  sweet 
little  foot  as  she  has!)  and  she  pins  strips 
of  paper  on  your  coat  collar ;  and  time  and 
again  she  has  worn  off  your  hat  in  triumph, 


o 


52  DREAM-LIFE 

very  well  knowing  that  you,  such  a  quiet 
body,  and  so  much  afraid  of  her,  will  never 
venture  upon  any  liberties  with  her  gipsy 
bonnet. 

You  sometimes  wish  in  your  vexation,  as 
you  see  her  running,  that  she  would  fall  and 
hurt  herself  badly ;  but  the  next  moment  it 
seems  a  very  wicked  wish,  and  you  re- 
nounce it.  Once,  she  did  come  very  near 
it.  You  were  all  playing  together  by  the 
big  swing — how  plainly  it  swings  in  your 
memory  now ! — Madge  had  the  seat,  and 
you  were  famous  for  running  under  with  a 
long  push,  which  Madge  liked  better  than 
anything  else :  well,  you  have  half  run  over 
the  ground,  when  crash  comes  the  swing, 
and  poor  Madge  with  it !  You  fairly  scream 
as  you  catch  her  up.  But  she  is  not  hurt — 
only  a  cry  of  fright,  and  a  little  sprain  of 
that  fairy  ankle ;  and  as  she  brushes  away 
the  tears,  and  those  flaxen  curls,  and  breaks 
into  a  merry  laugh — half  at  your  woe-worn 
face,  and  half  in  vexation  at  herself;  and 
leans  her  hand  (such  a  hand!)  upon  your 
shoulder,  to  limp  away  into  the  shade,  you 
dream  your  first  dream  of  love. 

But  it  is  only  a  dream,  not  at  all  acknowl- 
edged by  you:  she  is  three  or  four  years 
your  junior — too  young  altogether.  It  is 


o 


BOY   SENTIMENT  53 

very  absurd  to  talk  about  it.  There  is  noth- 
ing to  be  said  of  Madge — only — Madge! 
The  name  does  it. 

It  is  rather  a  pretty  name  to  write.  You 
are  fond  of  making  capital  M's ;  and  some- 
times you  follow  it  with  a  capital  A.  Then 
you  practise  a  little  upon  a  D,  and  perhaps 
back  it  up  with  a  G.  Of  course  it  is  the 
merest  accident  that  these  letters  come  to- 
gether. It  seems  funny  to  you — very.  And 
as  a  proof  that  they  are  made  at  random, 
you  make  a  T  or  an  R  before  them,  and 
some  other  quite  irrelevant  letters  after 
them. 

Finally,  as  a  sort  of  security  against  all 
suspicion,  you  cross  them  out — cross  them  a 
great  many  ways ;  even  holding  them  up  to 
the  light,  to  see  that  there  should  be  no  air 
of  intention  about  them. 

You  need  have  no  fear,  Clarence,  that 
your  hieroglyphics  will  be  studied  so  closely. 
Accidental  as  they  are,  you  are  very  much 
more  interested  in  them  than  any  one  else ! 

It  is  a  common  fallacy  of  this  dream  in 
most  stages  of  life,  that  a  vast  number  of 
persons  employ  their  time  chiefly  in  spying 
out  its  operations. 

Yet  Madge  cares  nothing  about  you,  that 
you  know  of.  Perhaps  it  is  the  very  reason, 


54  DREAM-LIFE 

though  you  do  not  suspect  it  then,  why  you 
care  so  much  for  her.  At  any  rate,  she  is  a 
friend  of  Nelly's ;  and  it  is  your  duty  not  to 
dislike  her.  Nelly,  too,  sweet  Nelly,  gets  an 
inkling  of  matters ;  for  sisters  are  very 
shrewd  in  suspicions  of  this  sort — shrewder 
than  brothers  or  fathers ;  and  like  the  good 
kind  girl  that  she  is,  she  wishes  to  humor 
even  your  weakness. 

Madge  drops  in  to  tea  quite  often :  Nelly 
has  something  in  particular  to  show  her 
two  or  three  times  a  week.  Good  Nelly — 
perhaps  she  is  making  your  troubles  all  the 
greater!  You  gather  large  bunches  of 
grapes  for  Madge — because  she  is  a  friend 
of  Nelly's — which  she  doesn't  want  at  all, 
and  very  pretty  bouquets,  which  she  either 
drops  or  pulls  to  pieces. 

In  the  presence  of  your  father  one  day, 
you  drop  some  hint  about  Madge,  in  a  very 
careless  way — a  way  shrewdly  calculated  to 
lay  all  suspicion ;  at  which  your  father 
laughs.  This  is  odd :  it  makes  you  wonder 
if  your  father  was  ever  in  love  himself. 

You  rather  think  that  he  has  been. 

Madge's  father  is  dead  and  her  mother  is 
poor;  and  you  sometimes  dream,  how — 
whatever  your  father  may  think  or  feel 
— you  will  some  day  make  a  large  fortune, 


o 


BOY   SENTIMENT 


55 


o 


in  some  very  easy  way,  and  build  a  snug 
cottage,  and  have  one  horse  for  your  car- 
riage, and  one  for  your  wife  (not  Madge, 
of  course — that  is  absurd)  ;  and  a  turtle- 
shell  cat  for  your  wife's  mother,  and  a 
pretty  gate  to  the  front  yard,  and  plenty 
of  shrubbery ;  and  how  your  wife  will  come 
dancing  down  the  path  to  meet  you — as  the 
wife  does  in  Mr.  Irving's  Sketch  Book — 
and  how  she  will  have  a  harp  inside,  and 
will  wear  white  dresses  with  a  blue  sash. 

Poor  Clarence,  it  never  once  occurs  to 
you,  that  even  Madge  may  grow  fat,  and 
wear  check  aprons,  and  snuffy-brown 
dresses  of  woolen  stuff,  and  twist  her  hair 
in  yellow  papers !  Oh,  no,  boyhood  has  no 
such  dreams  as  that! 

I  shall  leave  you  here  in  the  middle  of 
your  first  foray  into  the  world  of  sentiment, 
with  those  wicked  blue  eyes  chasing  rain- 
bows over  your  heart  and  those  little  feet 
walking  every  day  into  your  affections.  I 
shall  leave  you  before  the  affair  has  ripened 
into  any  overtures,  and  while  there  is  only 
a  sixpence  split  in  halves,  and  tied  about 
your  neck  and  Maggie's  neck,  to  bind  your 
destinies  together. 

If  I  even  hinted  at  any  probability  of  your 


DREAM-LIFE 


marrying  her,  or  of  your  not  marrying  her, 
you  would  be  very  likely  to  dispute  me. 
One  knows  his  own  feelings,  or  thinks  he 
does,  so  much  better  than  any  one  can  tell 
him. 


rv 


A  FRIEND  MADE  AND  FRIEND  LOST 

To  VISIT,  is  a  great  thing  in  the  boy  cal- 
endar— not  to  visit  this  or  that  neighbor — 
to  drink  tea,  or  eat  strawberries,  or  play  at 
draughts ;  but  to  go  away  on  a  visit  in  a 
coach,  with  a  trunk,  and  a  greatcoat,  and 
an  umbrella :  this  is  large ! 

It  makes  no  difference  that  they  wish  to 
be  rid  of  your  noise,  now  that  Charlie  is 
ill  with  a  fever :  the  reason  is  not  at  all  in 
the  way  of  your  pride  of  visiting.  You  are 
to  have  a  long  ride  in  a  coach  and  eat  a 
dinner  at  a  tavern,  and  to  see  a  new  town 
almost  as  large  as  the  one  you  live  in ;  and 
you  are  to  make  new  acquaintances.  In 
short,  you  are  to  see  the  world :  a  very 
proud  thing  it  is,  to  see  the  world ! 

As  you  journey  on,  after  bidding  your 
friends  adieu,  and  as  you  see  fences  and 
houses  to  which  you  have  not  been  used, 
you  think  them  very  odd  indeed:  but  it 
occurs  to  you  that  the  geographies  speak  of 
57 


DREAM-LIFE 

very  various  national  characteristics,  and 
you  are  greatly  gratified  with  this  oppor- 
tunity of  verifying  your  study.  You  see 
new  crops  too,  perhaps  a  broad-leaved  to- 
bacco field,  which  reminds  you  pleasantly 
of  the  luxuriant  vegetation  of  the  tropics, 
spoken  of  by  Peter  Parley,  and  others. 

As  for  the  houses  and  barns  in  the  new 
town,  they  quite  startle  you  with  their 
strangeness :  you  observe  that  some  of  the 
latter,  instead  of  having  one  stable  door, 
have  five  or  six,  a  fact  which  puzzles  you 
very  much  indeed.  You  observe  further, 
that  the  houses,  many  of  them,  have  balus- 
trades upon  the  top,  which  seems  to  you  a 
very  wonderful  adaptation  to  the  wants  of 
boys  who  wish  to  fly  kites,  or  to  play  upon 
the  roof.  You  notice  with  special  favor  one 
very  low  roof  which  you  might  climb  upon 
by  a  mere  plank,  and  you  think  the  boys, 
whose  father  lives  in  that  house,  are  very 
fortunate  boys. 

Your  old  aunt,  whom  you  visit,  you  think 
wears  a  very  queer  cap,  being  altogether 
different  from  that  of  the  old  nurse,  or  of 
Mrs.  Boyne — Madge's  mother.  As  for  the 
house  she  lives  in,  it  is  quite  wonderful. 
There  are  such  an  immense  number  of 
closets,  and  closets  within  closets,  reminding 


o 


o 


A   FRIEND  MADE  AND  FRIEND  LOST        59 

you  of  the  mysteries  of  Rinaldo  Rinaldini. 
Beside  which,  there  are  immensely  curious 
bits  of  old  furniture — so  black  and  heavy, 
and  with  such  curious  carving!  and  you 
think  of  the  old  wainscot  in  the  Children  of. 
the  Abbey.  You  think  you  will  never  tire 
of  rambling  about  in  its  odd  corners,  and 
of  what  glorious  stories  you  will  have  to 
tell  of  it,  when  you  go  back,  to  Nelly  and 
Charlie. 

As  for  acquaintances,  you  fall  in  the  very 
first  day  with  a  tall  boy  next  door,  called 
Nat,  which  seems  an  extraordinary  name. 
Besides,  he  has  traveled ;  and  as  he  sits  with 
you  on  the  summer  nights  under  the  linden 
trees,  he  tells  you  gorgeous  stories  of  the 
things  he  has  seen.  He  has  made  the  voy- 
age to  London :  and  he  talks  about  the  ship 
(a  real  ship)  and  starboard  and  larboard, 
and  the  spanker,  in  a  way  quite  surprising ; 
and  he  takes  the  stern  oar  in  the  little  skiff 
when  you  row  off  in  the  cove  abreast  of  the 
town,  in  a  most  seamanlike  way. 

He  bewilders  you,  too,  with  his  talk  about 
the  great  bridges  of  London — London 
Bridge  specially,  where  they  sell  kids  for  a 
penny;  which  story  your  new  acquaintance, 
unfortunately,  does  not  confirm.  You  have 
read  of  these  bridges,  and  seen  pictures  of 


o 


60  DREAM-LIFE 

them  in  the  Wonders  of  the  World;  but 
then  Nat  has  seen  them  with  his  own  eyes : 
he  has  literally  walked  over  London  Bridge, 
on  his  own  feet !  You  look  at  his  very  shoes 
in  wonderment,  and  are  surprised  you  do 
not  find  some  startling  difference  between 
those  shoes  and  your  shoes.  But  there  is 
none — only  yours  are  a  trifle  stouter  in  the 
welt.  You  think  Nat  one  of  the  fortunate 
boys  of  this  world,  born,  as  your  old  nurse 
used  to  say,  with  a  gold  spoon  in  his 
mouth. 

Beside  Nat,  there  is  a  girl  lives  over  the 
opposite  side  of  the  way,  named  Jenny,  with 
an  eye  as  black  as  a  coal ;  and  a  half  year 
older  than  you,  but  about  your  height, 
whom  you  fancy  amazingly. 

She  has  any  quantity  of  toys,  that  she  lets 
you  play  with  as  if  they  were  your  own. 
And  she  has  an  odd  old  uncle,  who  some- 
times makes  you  stand  up  together,  and 
then  marries  you  after  his  fashion — much  to 
the  amusement  of  a  grown-up  housemaid, 
whenever  she  gets  a  peep  at  the  perform- 
ance. And  it  makes  you  somewhat  proud 
to  hear  her  called  your  wife,  and  you  won- 
der to  yourself,  dreamily,  if  it  won't  be  true 
some  day  or  other. 


A  FRIEND   MADE  AND  FRIEND  LOST       6 1 

Fie,  Clarence,  where  is  your  split  six- 
pence, and  your  blue  ribbon  ! 

Jenny  is  romantic,  and  talks  of  Thaddeus 
of  Warsaw  in  a  very  touching  manner,  and 
promises  to  lend  you  the  book.  She  folds 
billets  in  a  lover's  fashion,  and  practises 
love-knots  upon  her  bonnet  strings.  She 
looks  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes  very 
often,  and  sighs.  She  is  frequently  by  her- 
self, and  pulls  flowers  to  pieces.  She  has 
great  pity  for  middle-aged  bachelors,  and 
thinks  them  all  disappointed  men. 

After  a  time  she  writes  notes  to  you,  beg- 
ging you  would  answer  them  at  the  earliest 
possible  moment,  and  signs  herself  "your 
attached  Jenny."  She  takes  the  marriage 
farce  of  her  uncle  in  a  cold  way — as  trifling 
with  a  very  serious  subject,  and  looks  ten- 
derly at  you.  She  is  very  much  shocked 
when  her  uncle  offers  to  kiss  her ;  and  when 
he  proposes  it  to  you,  she  is  equally  indig- 
nant, but — with  a  great  change  of  color. 

Nat  says  one  day,  in  a  confidential  con- 
versation, that  it  won't  do  to  marry  a 
woman  six  months  older  than  yourself ;  and 
this  coming  from  Nat,  who  has  been  to  Lon- 
don, rather  staggers  you.  You  sometimes 
think  that  you  would  like  to  marry  Madge 
and  Jenny  both,  if  the  thing  were  possible ; 


o 


62  DREAM-LIFE 

for  Nat  says  they  sometimes  do  so  on  the 
other  side  of  the  ocean,  though  he  has  never 
seen  it  himself. 

Ah,  Clarence,  you  will  have  no  such 
weakness  as  you  grow  older :  you  will  find 
that  Providence  has  so  tempered  our  affec- 
tions, that  every  man  of  ordinary  nerve  will 
be  amply  satisfied  with  a  single  wife ! 

All  this  time — for  you  are  making  your 
visit  a  very  long  one,  so  that  autumn  has 
come,  and  the  nights  are  growing  cool,  and 
Jenny  and  yourself  are  transferring  your 
little  coquetries  to  the  chimney-corner — 
poor  Charlie  lies  sick  at  home.  Boyhood, 
thank  heaven,  does  not  suffer  severely  from 
sympathy  when  the  object  is  remote.  And 
those  letters  from  the  mother,  telling  you 
that  Charlie  can  not  play — can  not  talk  even 
as  he  used  to  do ;  and  that  perhaps  his 
"Heavenly  Father  will  take  him  away,  to  be 
with  Him  in  the  better  world,"  disturb  you 
for  a  time  only.  Sometimes,  however,  they 
come  back  to  your  thought  on  a  wakeful 
night,  and  you  dream  about  his  suffering, 
and  think — why  it  is  not  you,  but  Charlie, 
who  is  sick !  The  thought  puzzles  you ;  and 
well  it  may,  for  in  it  lies  the  whole  mystery 
of  our  fate. 


A   FRIEND   MADE  AND  FRIEND  LOST       63 


Those  letters  grow  more  and  more  dis- 
couraging, and  the  kind  admonitions  of 
your  mother  grow  more  earnest,  as  if 
(though  the  thought  does  not  come  to  you 
until  years  afterward)  she  was  preparing 
herself  to  fasten  upon  you  that  surplus  of 
affection  which  she  fears  may  soon  be  with- 
drawn forever  from  the  sick  child. 

It  is  on  a  frosty  bleak  evening,  when  you 
are  playing  with  Nat,  that  the  letter  reaches 
you  which  says  Charlie  is  growing  worse, 
and  that  you  must  come  to  your  home.  It 
makes  a  dreamy  night  for  you — fancying 
how  Charlie  will  look,  and  if  sickness  has 
altered  him  much,  and  if  he  will  not  be  well 
by  Christmas.  From  this  you  fall  away  in 
your  reverie  to  the  odd  old  house  and  its 
secret  cupboards,  and  your  aunt's  queer 
caps:  then  come  up  those  black  eyes  of 
"your  attached  Jenny,"  and  you  think  it  a 
pity  that  she  is  six  months  older  than  you ; 
and  again — as  you  recall  one  of  her  sighs — 
you  think  that  six  months  are  not  much 
after  all! 

You  bid  her  good-by,  with  a  little  senti- 
ment swelling  in  your  throat,  and  are  mor- 
tally afraid  Nat  will  see  your  lip  tremble. 
Of  course  you  promise  to  write,  and  squeeze 


o 


64  DREAM-LIFE 

her  hand  with  an  honesty  you  do  not  think 
Of  doubting — for  weeks. 

It  is  a  dull  cold  ride,  that  day,  for  you. 
The  winds  sweep  over  the  withered  corn 
fields  with  a  harsh  chilly  whistle ;  and  the 
surfaces  of  the  little  pools  by  the  roadside 
are  tossed  up  into  cold  blue  wrinkles  of 
water.  Here  and  there  a  flock  of  quail,  with 
their  feathers  ruffled  in  the  autumn  gusts, 
treads  through  the  hard  dry  stubble  of  an 
oat  field  ;  or  startled  by  the  snap  of  the  driv- 
er's whip,  they  stare  a  moment  at  the  coach, 
then  whir  away  down  the  cold  current  of 
the  wind.  The  blue  jays  scream  from  the 
roadside  oaks,  and  the  last  of  the  blue  and 
purple  asters  shiver  along  the  wall.  And  as 
the  sun  sinks,  reddening  all  the  western 
clouds  to  the  color  of  the  frosted  maples, 
light  lines  of  the  aurora  gush  up  from  the 
northern  hills,  and  trail  their  splintered 
fingers  far  over  the  autumn  sky. 

It  is  quite  dark  when  you  reach  home, 
but  you  see  the  bright  reflection  of  a  fire 
within,  and  presently  at  the  open  door, 
Nelly,  clapping  her  hands  for  welcome.  But 
there  are  sad  faces  when  you  enter.  Your 
mother  folds  you  to  her  heart ;  but  at  your 
first  noisy  outburst  of  joy,  puts  her  finger 
on  her  lip,  and  whispers  poor  Charlie's 


9 

I 


A'  FRIEND  MADE  AND  FRIEND  LOST       65 

name.  The  doctor  you  see,  too,  slipping 
softly  out  of  the  bedroom  door  with  glasses 
in  his  hand ;  and — you  hardly  know  how — 
your  spirits  grow  sad,  and  your  heart  gravi- 
tates to  the  heavy  air  of  all  about  you. 

You  can  not  see  Charlie,  Nelly  says ;  and 
you  can  not,  in  the  quiet  parlor,  tell  Nelly 
a  single  one  of  the  many  things  which  you 
had  hoped  to  tell  her.  She  says,  "Charlie 
has  grown  so  thin  and  so  pale,  you  would 
never  know  him."  You  listen  to  her,  but 
you  can  not  talk:  she  asks  you  what  you 
have  seen,  and  you  begin,  for  a  moment  joy- 
ously ;  but  when  they  open  the  door  of  the 
sick-room,  and  you  hear  a  faint  sigh,  you 
can  not  go  on.  You  sit  still,  with  your  hand 
in  Nelly's,  and  look  thoughtfully  into  the 
blaze. 

You  drop  to  sleep,  after  that  day's  fa- 
tigue, with  singular  and  perplexed  fancies 
haunting  you  and  when  you  wake  up  with 
a  shudder  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  you 
have  a  fancy  that  Charlie  is  really  dead :  you 
dream  of  seeing  him  pale  and  thin,  as  Nelly 
described  him,  and  with  the  starched  grave- 
clothes  on  him.  You  toss  over  in  your  bed, 
and  grow  hot  and  feverish.  You  can  not 
sleep;  and  you  get  up  stealthily,  and  creep 
down-stairs ;  a  light  is  burning  in  the  hall ; 


66 


DREAM-LIFE 


the  bedroom  door  stands  half  open,  and  you 
listen — fancying  you  hear  a  whisper.  You 
steal  on  through  the  hall  and  edge  around 
the  side  of  the  door.  A  little  lamp  is  flicker- 
ing on  the  hearth,  and  the  gaunt  shadow  of 
the  bedstead  lies  dark  upon  the  ceiling. 
Your  mother  is  in  her  chair,  with  her  head 
upon  her  hand — though  it  is  long  after 
midnight.  The  doctor  is  standing  with  his 
back  toward  you,  and  with  Charlie's  little 
wrist  in  his  ringers ;  and  you  hear  hard 
breathing,  and  now  and  then,  a  low  sigh 
from  your  mother's  chair. 

An  occasional  gleam  of  firelight  makes 
the  gaunt  shadows  stagger  on  the  wall,  like 
something  spectral.  You  look  wildly  at 
them,  and  at  the  bed  where  your  own 
brother — your  laughing,  gay-hearted  broth- 
er— is  lying.  You  long  to  see  him,  and  sidle 
up  softly  a  step  or  two ;  but  your  mother's 
ear  has  caught  the  sound,  and  she  beckons 
you  to  her,  and  folds  you  again  in  her  em- 
brace. You  whisper  to  her  what  you  wish. 
She  rises,  and  takes  you  by  the  hand,  to 
lead  you  to  the  bedside. 

The  doctor  looks  very  solemnly  as  we  ap- 
proach. He  takes  out  his  watch.  He  is  not 
counting  Charlie's  pulse,  for  he  has  dropped 


A  FRIEND  MADE  AND  FRIEND  LOST       67 

his  hand ;  and  it  lies  carelessly,  but,  oh,  how 
thin !  over  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

He  shakes  his  head  mournfully  at  your 
mother ;  and  she  springs  forward,  dropping 
your  hand,  and  lays  her  fingers  upon  the 
forehead  of  the  boy,  and  passes  her  hand 
over  his  mouth. 

"Is  he  asleep,  doctor  ?"  she  says  in  a  tone 
you  do  not  know. 

"Be  calm,  madam."  The  doctor  is  very 
calm. 

"I  am  calm,"  says  your  mother ;  but  you 
do  not  think  it,  for  you  see  her  tremble 
very  plainly. 

"Dear  madam,  he  will  never  waken  in 
this  world !" 

There  is  no  cry — only  a  bowing  down  of 
your  mother's  head  upon  the  body  of  poor 
dead  Charlie — and  only  when  you  see  her 
form  shake  and  quiver  with  the  deep  smoth- 
ered sobs,  your  crying  bursts  forth  loud  and 
strong. 

The  doctor  lifts  you  in  his  arms,  that  yon 
may  see — that  pale  head — those  blue  eyes  all 
sunken— that  flaxen  hair  gone — those  white 
lips  pinched  and  hard!  Never,  never,  will 
the  boy  forget  his  first  terrible  sight  of 
Death ! 


68  DREAM-LIFE 

In  your  silent  chamber,  after  the  storm 
of  sobs  has  wearied  you,  the  boy-dreams  are 
strange  and  earnest.  They  take  hold  on  that 
awful  Visitant — that  strange  slipping  away 
from  life,  of  which  we  know  so  little,  and 
yet  know,  alas,  so  much !  Charlie,  that  was 
your  brother,  is  now  only  a  name ;  perhaps 
he  is  an  angel;  perhaps  (for  the  old  nurse 
has  said  it,  when  he  was  ugly — and  now 
you  hate  her  for  it)  he  is  with  Satan. 

But  you  are  sure  this  can  not  be :  you  are 
sure  that  God,  who  made  him  suffer,  would 
not  now  quicken  and  multiply  his  suffering. 
It  agrees  with  your  religion  to  think  so ; 
and  just  now  you  want  your  religion  to  help 
you  all  it  can. 

You  toss  in  your  bed,  thinking  over  and 
over  that  strange  thing — Death:  and  that 
perhaps  it  may  overtake  you  before  you 
are  a  man;  and  you  sob  out  those  prayers 
(you  scarce  know  why)  which  ask  God  to 
keep  life  in  you.  You  think  the  involuntary 
fear,  that  makes  your  little  prayer  full  of 
sobs,  is  a  holy  feeling:  and  so  it  is  a  holy 
feeling — the  same  feeling  which  makes  a 
stricken  child  yearn  for  the  embrace  and  the 
protection  of  a  parent.  But  you  will  find 
there  are  those  canting  ones,  trying  to  per- 


9 


A  FRIEND  MADE  AND  FRIEND  LOST       69 

suade  you  at  a  later  day,  that  it  is  a  mere 
animal  fear,  and  not  to  be  cherished. 

You  feel  an  access  of  goodness  growing 
out  of  your  boyish  grief;  you  feel  right- 
minded  ;  it  seems  as  if  your  little  brother  in 
going  to  Heaven  had  opened  a  pathway 
thither,  down  which  goodness  comes 
streaming  over  your  soul. 

You  think  how  good  a  life  you  will  lead ; 
and  you  map  out  great  purposes,  spreading 
themselves  over  the  school-weeks  of  your 
remaining  boyhood;  and  you  love  your 
friends,  or  seem  to,  far  more  dearly  than 
you  ever  loved  them  before ;  and  you  for- 
give the  boy  who  provoked  you  to  that  sad 
fall  from  the  oaks,  and  you  forgive  him  all 
his  wearisome  teasings.  But  you  can  not 
forgive  yourself  for  some  harsh  words  that 
you  have  once  spoken  to  Charlie ;  still  less 
can  you  forgive  yourself  for  having  once 
struck  him,  in  passion,  with  your  fist.  You 
can  not  forget  his  sobs  then ;  if  he  were  only 
alive  one  little  instant,  to  let  you  say, 
"Charlie,  will  you  forgive  me  ?" 

Yourself,  you  can  not  forgive;  and  sob- 
bing over  it  and  murmuring  "Dear — dear 
Charlie !"  you  drop  into  a  troubled  sleep. 


n 


BOY    RELIGION 

Is  ANY  weak  soul  frightened,  that  I 
should  write  of  the  religion  of  the  boy? 
How  indeed  could  I  cover  the  field  of  his 
moral  or  intellectual  growth,  if  I  left  un- 
noticed those  dreams  of  futurity  and  of 
goodness,  which  come  sometimes  to  his 
quieter  moments,  and  oftener,  to  his  hours 
of  vexation  and  trouble?  It  would  be  as 
wise  to  describe  the  season  of  spring,  with 
no  note  of  the  silent  influences  of  that  burn- 
,ing  day-god  which  is  melting  day  by  day 
the  shattered  ice-drifts  of  winter ;  which  is 
filling  every  bud  with  succulence,  and  paint- 
ing one  flower  with  crimson,  and  another 
with  white. 

I  know  there  is  a  feeling — by  much  too 
general  as  it  seems  to  me — that  the  subject 
may  not  be  approached  except  through  the 
dicta  of  certain  ecclesiastic  bodies,  and  that 
the  language  which  touches  it  must  not  be 
that  every-day  language  which  mirrors  the 
70 


BOY   RELIGION  7! 

vitality  of  your  thought,  but  should  have 
some  twist  of  that  theologic  mannerism, 
which  is  as  cold  to  the  boy  as  to  the  busy 
man  of  the  world. 

I  know  very  well  that  a  great  many  good 
souls  will  call  levity  what  I  call  honesty, 
and  will  abjure  that  familiar  handling  of 
the  boy's  lien  upon  eternity,  which  my  story 
will  show.  But  I  shall  feel  sure  that  in  keep- 
ing true  to  nature  with  word  and  with 
thought,  I  shall  in  no  way  offend  against 
those  highest  truths,  to  which  all  truthful- 
ness is  kindred. 

You  have  Christian  teachers,  who  speak 
always  reverently  of  the  Bible;  you  grow 
up  in  the  hearing  of  daily  prayers ;  nay,  you 
are  perhaps  taught  to  say  them. 

Sometimes  they  have  a  meaning,  and 
sometimes  they  have  none.  They  have  a 
meaning  when  your  heart  is  troubled, 
when  a  grief  or  a  wrong  weighs  upon  you : 
then,  the  keeping  of  the  Father,  which  you 
implore,  seems  to  come  from  the  bottom  of 
your  soul ;  and  your  eye  suffuses  with  such 
tears  of  feeling  as  you  count  holy,  and  as 
you  love  to  cherish  in  your  memory. 

But  they  have  no  meaning  when^  some 
trifling  vexation  angers  you,  and  a  distaste 
for  all  about  you  breeds  a  distaste  for  all 


72  DREAM-LIFE 

above  you.  In  the  long  hours  of  toilsome 
days,  little  thought  comes  over  you  of  the 
morning  prayer;  and  only  when  evening 
deepens  its  shadows,  and  your  boyish  vexa- 
tions fatigue  you  to  thoughtfulness,  do  you 
dream  of  that  coming .  and  endless  night,  to 
which — they  tell  you — prayers  soften  the 
way. 

Sometimes  upon  a  summer  Sunday,  when 
you  are  wakeful  upon  your  seat  in  church, 
with  some  strong-worded  preacher  who 
says  things  that  half  fright  you,  it  occurs 
to  you  to  consider  how  much  goodness  you 
are  made  of ;  and  whether  there  be  enough 
of  it  after  all,  to  carry  you  safely  away 
from  the  clutch  of  evil?  And  straightway 
you  reckon  up  those  friendships  where  your 
heart  lies:  you  know  you  are  a  true  and 
honest  friend  to  Frank;  and  you  love  your 
mother,  and  your  father;  as  for  Nelly, 
heaven  knows,  you  could  not  contrive  a 
way  to  love  her  better  than  you  do. 

You  dare  not  take  much  credit  to  your- 
self for  the  love  of  little  Madge,  partly  be- 
cause you  have  sometimes  caught  yourself 
trying — not  to  love  her ;  and  partly  because 
the  black-eyed  Jenny  comes  in  the  way.  Yet 
you  can  find  no  command  in  the  catechism 
to  love  one  girl  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other 


o 


BOY   RELIGION  73 

girls.  It  is  somewhat  doubtful  if  you  ever 
do  not  find  it.  But,  as  for  loving  some  half- 
dozen  you  could  name,  whose  images  drift 
through  your  thought  in  dirty,  salmon-col- 
ored frocks,  and  slovenly  shoes,  it  is  quite 
impossible ;  and  suddenly  this  thought, 
coupled  with  a  lingering  remembrance  of 
the  pea-green  pantaloons,  utterly  breaks 
down  your  hopes. 

Yet — you  muse  again — there  are  plenty 
of  good  people,  as  the  times  go,  who  have 
their  dislikes,  and  who  speak  them  too. 
Even  the  sharp-talking  clergyman  you  have 
heard  say  some  very  sour  things  about  his 
landlord,  who  raised  his  rent  the  last  year. 
And  you  know  that  he  did  not  talk  as  mildly 
as  he  does  in  the  church  when  he  found 
Frank  and  yourself  quietly  filching  a  few  of 
his  peaches  through  the  orchard  fence. 

But  your  clergyman  will  say  perhaps, 
with  what  seems  to  you  quite  unnecessary 
coldness,  that  goodness  is  not  to  be  reck- 
oned in  your  chances  of  safety;  that  there 
is  a  Higher  Goodness,  whose  merit  is  all- 
sufficient.  This  puzzles  you  sadly;  nor  will 
you  escape  the  puzzle,  until  in  the  presence 
of  the  Home  altar,  which  seems  to  guard 
you,  as  the  Lares  guarded  Roman  children, 
you  f,eel — you  can  not  tell  how — that  good 


74  DREAM-LIFE 

actions  must  spring  from  good  sources ;  and 
that  those  sources  must  lie  in  that  heaven, 
toward  which  your  boyish  spirit  yearns,  as 
you  kneel  at  your  mother's  side. 

Conscience,  too,  is  all  the  while  approving 
you  for  deeds  well  done;  and — wicked  as 
you  fear  the  preacher  might  judge  it — you 
can  not  but  found  on  these  deeds  a  hope 
that  your  prayer  at  night  flows  more  easily, 
more  freely,  and  more  holily  toward  "Our 
Father  in  Heaven."  Nor  indeed,  later  in  life 
— whatever  may  be  the  ill-advised  expres- 
sions of  human  teachers — will  you  ever  find 
that  duty  performed,  and  generous  endeavor 
will  stand  one  whit  in  the  way  either  of  faith 
or  of  love.  Striving  to  be  good  is  a  very  di- 
rect road  toward  goodness ;  and  if  life  be  so 
tempered  by  high  motive  as  to  make  actions 
always  good,  faith  is  unconsciously  won. 

Another  notion  that  disturbs  you  very 
much,  is  your  positive  dislike  of  long  ser- 
mons, and  of  such  singing  as  they  have 
when  the  organist  is  away.  You  can  not  get 
the  force  of  that  verse  of  Doctor  Watts 
which  likens  heaven  to  a  never-ending  Sab- 
bath: you  do  hope — though  it  seems  a  half 

wicked  hope — that  old  Doctor  will 

not  be  the  preacher.  You  think  that  your 


o 


BOY   RELIGION 


75 


heart  in  its  best  moments  craves  for  some- 
thing more  lovable.  You  suggest  this  per- 
haps to  some  Sunday  teacher  who  only 
shakes  his  head  sourly,  and  tells  you 
it  is  a  thought  that  the  devil  is  putting  in 
your  brain.  It  strikes  you  oddly  that  the 
devil  should  be  using  a  verse  of  Doctor 
Watts  to  puzzle  you !  But  if  it  be  so,  he 
keeps  it  sticking  by  your  thought  very 
pertinaciously,  until  some  simple  utterance 
of  your  mother,  about  the  love  that  reigns 
in  the  other  world,  seems  on  a  sudden  to 
widen  heaven,  and  to  waft  away  your  doubts 
like  a  cloud. 

It  excites  your  wonder  not  a  little  to  find 
people,  who  talk  gravely  and  heartily  of  the 
excellence  of  sermons  and  of  church-going, 
do  sometimes  fall  asleep  under  it  all.  And 
you  wonder — if  they  really  like  preaching 
so  well — why  they  do  not  buy  some  of  the 
minister's  old  manuscripts,  and  read  them 
over  on  week-days ;  or  invite  the  clergyman 
to  preach  to  them  in  a  quiet  way  in  private. 

Ah,  Clarence,  you  do  not  yet  know  the 
poor  weakness  of  even  maturest  manhood, 
and  the  feeble  gropings  of  the  soul  toward 
a  soul's  paradise,  in  the  best  of  the  world ! 
You  do  not  know  either,  that  ignorance 


76  DREAM -LIFE 

and  fear  will  be  thrusting  their  untruth  and 
false  show  into  the  very  essentials  of  re- 
ligion. 

Again  you  wonder,  if  the  clergymen  are 
all  such  very  good  men  as  you  are  taught 
to  believe,  why  it  is,  that  every  little  while 
people  will  be  trying  to  send  them  off ;  and 
very  anxious  to  prove  that  instead  of  being 
so  good,  they  are  in  fact  very  stupid  and 
bad  men.  At  that  day  you  have  no  clear 
conceptions  of  the  distinction  between  stu- 
pidity and  vice,  and  think  that  a  good  man 
must  necessarily  say  very  eloquent  things. 
You  will  find  yourself  sadly  mistaken  on 
this  point,  before  you  get  on  very  far  in 
life. 

Heaven,  when  your  mother  peoples  it  with 
friends  gone,  and  little  Charlie,  and  that 
better  Friend,  who,  she  says,  took  Charlie 
in  His  arms,  and  is  now  his  Father  above 
the  skies,  seems  a  place  to  be  loved  and 
longed  for.  But  to  think  that  Mr.  Such- 
an-one,  who  is  only  good  on  Sundays,  will 
be  there,  too ;  and  to  think  of  his  talking,  as 
he  does,  of  a  place  which  you  are  sure  he 
would  spoil  if  he  were  there — puzzles  you 
again:  and  you  relapse  into  wonder,  doubt 
and  yearning. 

And  there,  Clarence,  for  the  present  I 


JL 


u 

BOY   RELIGION  77 

shall  leave  you.  A  wide  rich  heaven  hangs 
above  you  but  it  hangs  very  high.  A  wide 
rough  world  is  around  you,  and  it  lies  very 
low! 

I  am  assuming  in  these  sketches  no  office 
of  a  teacher.  I  am  seeking  only  to  make  a 
truthful  analysis  of  the  boyish  thought  and 
feeling.  But  having  ventured  thus  far  into 
what  may  seem  sacred  ground,  I  shall  ven- 
ture still  farther,  and  clinch  my  matter  with 
a  moral. 

There  is  very  much  religious  teaching, 
even  in  so  good  a  country  as  New  England, 
which  is  far  too  harsh,  too  dry,  too  cold  for 
the  heart  of  a  boy.  Long  sermons,  doctrinal 
precepts,  and  such  tediously  worded  dog- 
mas as  were  uttered  by  those  honest,  but 
hard-spoken  men,,  the  Westminster  Di- 
vines, fatigue,  and  puzzle,  and  dispirit  him. 

They  may  be  well  enough  for  those  strong 
soulg  which  strengthen  by  task-work,  or  for 
those  mature  people  whose  iron  habit  of 
self-denial  has  made  patience  a  cardinal  vir- 
tue, but  they  fall  (expert  o  crede)  upon  the 
unfledged  faculties  of  the  boy  like  a  win- 
ter's rain  upon  spring  flowers — like  ham- 
mers of  iron  upon  lithe  timber.  They  may 
•  make  deep  impression  upon  his  moral  na- 


o 


78  DREAM-LIFE 

ture,  but  there  is  great  danger  of  a  sad  re- 
bound. 

Is  it  absurd  to  suppose  that  some  adapta- 
tion is  desirable?  And  might  not  the  teach- 
ings of  that  religion,  which  is  the  asgis  of 
our  moral  being,  be  inwrought  with  some  of 
those  finer  harmonies  of  speech  and  form 
which  were  given  to  wise  ends ;  and  lure 
the  boyish  soul,  by  something  akin  to  that 
gentleness  which  belonged  to  the  Nazarene 
Teacher,  and  which  provided  not  only  meat 
for  men,  but  "milk  for  babes"? 


0 


VI 


A   NEW    ENGLAND   SQUIRE 

FRANK  has  a  grandfather  living  in  the 
country,  a  good  specimen  of  the  old-fash- 
ioned New  England  farmer.  And — go 
where  one  will,  the  world  over — I  know  of 
no  race  of  men,  who,  taken  together,  pos- 
sess more  integrity,  more  intelligence,  and 
more  of  those  elements  of  comfort,  which 
go  to  make  a  home  beloved,  and  the  social 
basis  firm,  than  the  New  England  farmers. 

They  are  not  brilliant,  nor  are  they  highly 
refined ;  they  know  nothing  of  arts,  histri- 
onic or  dramatic ;  they  know  only  so  much 
of  older  nations  as  their  histories  and  news- 
papers teach  them  ;  in  the  fashionable  world 
they  hold  no  place ;  but  in  energy,  in  indus- 
try, in  hardy  virtue,  in  substantial  knowl- 
edge, and  in  manly  independence,  they 
make  up  a  race  that  is  hard  to  be  matched. 

The  French  peasantry  are,  in  all  the  es- 
sentials of  intelligence  and  sterling  worth, 
infants  compared  with  them ;  and  the  farm- 
79 


80  DREAM-LIFE 

ers  of  England  are  either  the  merest  jockeys 
in  grain,  with  few  ideas  beyond  their  sacks, 
samples,  and  market  days, — or,  with  added 
cultivation,  they  lose  their  independence  in 
a  subserviency  to  some  neighbor  patron  of 
rank ;  and  superior  intelligence  teaches  them 
no  lesson  so  quickly  as  that  their  brethren 
of  the  glebe  are  unequal  to  them,  and  are 
to  be  left  to  their  cattle  and  the  goad. 

There  are  English  farmers  indeed,  who 
are  men  in  earnest,  who  read  the  papers, 
and  who  keep  the  current  of  the  year's  in- 
telligence ;  but  such  men  are  the  exceptions. 
In  New  England,  with  the  school  upon 
every  third  hillside,  and  the  self-regulating 
free-acting  church  to  watch  every  valley 
with  week-day  quiet,  and  to  wake  every  val- 
ley with  Sabbath  sound,  the  men  become  as 
a  class,  bold,  intelligent,  and  honest  actors, 
who  would  make  again,  as  they  have  made 
before,  a  terrible  army  of  defense ;  and  who 
would  find  reasons  for  their  actions,  as 
strong  as  their  armies. 

Frank's  grandfather  has  silver  hair,  but 
is  still  hale,  erect,  and  strong.  His  dress  is 
homely  but  neat.  Being  a  thorough-going 
Protectionist,  he  has  no  fancy  for  the  gew- 
gaws of  foreign  importation,  and  makes  it  a 
point  to  appear  always  in  the  village  church, 


A  NEW   ENGLAND  SQUIRE  8l 

and  on  all  great  occasions,  in  a  sober  suit 
of  homespun.  He  has  no  pride  of  appear- 
ance, and  he  needs  none.  He  is  known  as 
the  squire  throughout  the  township ;  and 
no  important  measure  can  pass  the  board  of 
selectmen  without  the  squire's  approval : 
and  this,  from  no  blind  subserviency  to  his 
opinion,  because  his  farm  is  large,  and  he  is 
reckoned  ''fore-handed",  but  because  there 
is  a  confidence  in  his  judgment. 

He  is  jealous  of  none  of  the  prerogatives 
of  the  country  parson,  or  of  the  schoolmas- 
ter, or  of  the  village  doctor ;  and  although 
the  latter  is  a  testy  politician  of  the  opposite 
party,  it  does  not  at  all  impair  the  squire's 
faith  in  his  calomel ;  he  suffers  all  his  Radi- 
calism, with  the  same  equanimity  that  he 
suffers  his  rhubarb. 

The  day-laborers  of  the  neighborhood, 
and  the  small  farmers,  consider  the  squire's 
note  of  hand  for  their  savings  better  than 
the  best  bonds  of  city  origin ;  and  they  seek 
his  advice  in  all  matters  of  litigation.  He  is 
a  justice  of  the  peace,  as  the  title  of  squire 
in  a  New  England  village  implies;  and 
many  are  the  country  courts  that  you  peep 
upon  with  Frank,  from  the  door  of  the 
great  dining-room. 

The  defendant  always  seems  to  you,  in 


Q 


82  DREAM-LIFE 

these  important  cases — especially  if  his 
beard  is  rather  long — an  extraordinary  ruf- 
fian, to  whom  Jack  Sheppard  would  have 
been  a  comparatively  innocent  boy.  You 
watch  curiously  the  old  gentleman,  sitting 
in  his  big  armchair,  with  his  spectacles  in 
their  silver  case  at  his  elbow,  and  his  snuff- 
box in  hand,  listening  attentively  to  some 
grievous  complaint;  you  see  him  ponder 
deeply — with  a  pinch  of  snuff  to  aid  his 
judgment — and  you  listen  with  intense  ad- 
miration as  he  gives  a  loud  preparatory 
"Ahem",  and  clears  away  the  intricacies  of 
the  case  with  a  sweep  of  that  strong  practi- 
cal sense  which  distinguishes  the  New  Eng- 
land farmer — getting  at  the  very  hinge  of 
the  matter,  without  any  consciousness  of  his 
own  precision,  and  satisfying  the  defendant 
by  the  clearness  of  his  talk,  as  much  as  by 
the  leniency  of  his  judgment. 

His  lands  lie  along  those  swelling  hills 
which  in  southern  New  England  carry  the 
chain  of  the  White  and  Green  Mountains, 
in  gentle  undulations,  to  the  borders  of  the 
sea.  He  farms  some  fifteen  hundred  acres — 
"suitably  divided",  as  the  old  school  agri- 
culturists say,  into  "wood-land,  pasture,  and 
tillage".  The  farmhouse,  a  large  irregularly 
built  mansion  of  wood,  stands  upon  a  shelf 


A   NEW   ENGLAND    SQUIRE 


of  the  hills  looking  southward,  and  is  shaded 
by  century-old  oaks.  The  barns  and  out- 
buildings are  grouped  in  a  brown  phalanx, 
a  little  to  the  northward  of  the  dwellings. 
Between  them  a  high  timber  gate  opens 
upon  the  scattered  pasture  lands  of  the  hills ; 
opposite  to  this,  and  across  the  farmyard, 
which  is  the  lounging  place  of  scores  of 
red-necked  turkeys,  and  of  matronly  hens, 
clucking  to  their  callow  brood,  another  gate 
of  similar  pretensions  opens  upon  the  wide 
meadow  land,  which  rolls  with  a  heavy 
"ground  swell",  along  the  valley  of  a  moun- 
tain river.  A  veteran  oak  stands  sentinel  at 
the  brown  meadow-gate,  its  trunk  all 
scarred  with  the  ruthless  cuts  of  new- 
ground  axes,  and  the  limbs  garnished  in 
summer  time  with  the  crooked  snathes  of 
murderous-looking  scythes. 

The  highroad  passes  a  stone's  throw 
away ;  but  there  is  little  "travel"  to  be  seen ; 
and  every  chance  passer  will  inevitably 
come  under  the  range  of  the  kitchen  win- 
dows, and  be  studied  carefully  by  the  eyes 
of  the  stout  dairy-maid,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  stalwart  Indian  cook. 

This  last  you  can  not  but  admire  as  a  type 
of  that  noble  old  race  among  whom  your 
boyish  fancy  has  woven  so  many  stories  of 


84  DREAM-LIFE 

romance.  You  wonder  how  she  must  regard 
the  white  interlopers  upon  her  own  soil; 
and  you  think  that  she  tolerates  the  squire's 
farming  privileges  with  more  modesty  than 
you  would  suppose.  You  learn,  however, 
that  she  pays  very  little  regard  to  white 
rights — when  they  conflict  with  her  own ; 
and  further  learn,  to  your  deep  regret,  that 
your  princess  of  the  old  tribe  is  sadly  ad- 
dicted to  cider  drinking;  and  having  heard 
her  once  or  twice,  with  a  very  indistinct 
"Goo-er  night,  Sq-square,"  upon  her  lips — 
your  dreams  about  her  grow  very  tame. 

The  squire,  like  all  very  sensible  men,  has 
his  hobbies  and  peculiarities.  He  has  a  great 
contempt,  for  instance,  for  all  paper  money ; 
and  imagines  banks  to  be  corporate  so- 
cieties, skilfully  contrived  for  the  legal  plun- 
der of  the  community.  He  keeps  a  supply 
of  silver  and  gold  by  him  in  the  foot  of  an 
old  stocking ;  and  seems  to  have  great  con- 
fidence in  the  value  of  Spanish  milled  dol- 
lars. He  has  no  kind  of  patience  with  the 
new  doctrines  of  farming.  Liebig,  and  all 
the  rest,  he  sets  down  as  mere  theorists ; 
and  has  far  more  respect  for  the  contents  of 
his  barnyard  than  for  all  the  guano  deposits 
in  the  world.  Scientific  farming,  and  gen- 
tleman farming,  may  do  very  well,  he  says, 


A   NEW  ENGLAND   SQUIRE  85 

"to  keep  idle  young  fellows  from  the  city 
out  of  mischief ;  but  as  for  real  effective 
management  there's  nothing  like  the  old 
stock  of  men,  who  ran  barefoot  until  they 
were  ten,  and  who  count  the  hard  winters 
by  their  frozen  toes."  And  he  is  fond  of 
quoting  in  this  connection — the  only  quota- 
tion, by  the  by,  that  the  old  gentleman  ever 
makes — that  couplet  of  "Poor  Richard" : 

"He,  that  by  the  plow  would  thrive, 
Himself  must  either  hold  or  drive." 

The  squire  has  been  in  his  day  connected 
more  or  less  intimately  with  turnpike  enter- 
prises, which  the  railroads  of  the  day  have 
thrown  sadly  into  the  background ;  and  he 
reflects  often,  in  a  melancholy  way,  upon 
the  good  old  times  when  a  man  could  travel 
in  his  own  carriage  quietly  across  the  coun- 
try, without  being  frightened  with  the  clat- 
ter of  an  engine;  and  when  turnpike  stock 
paid  wholesome  yearly  dividends  of  six  per 
cent. 

An  almost  constant  hanger-on  about  the 
premises,  and  a  great  favorite  with  the 
squire,  is  a  stout  middle-aged  man,  with  a 
heavy-bearded  face — to  whom  Frank  intro- 
duces you,  as  "Captain  Dick";  and  he  tells 


o 


86  DREAM -LIFE 

you,  moreover,  that  he  is  a  better  butcher,  a 
better  wall  layer,  and  cuts  a  broader 
"swathe",  than  any  man  upon  the  farm. 
Beside  all  which,  he  has  an  immense  deal  of 
information.  He  knows,  in  the  spring, 
where  all  the  crows'  nests  are  to  be  found ; 
he  tells  Frank  where  the  foxes  burrow ;  he 
has  even  shot  two  or  three  raccoons  in  the 
swamps ;  he  knows  the  best  season  to  troll 
for  pickerel ;  he  has  a  thorough  understand- 
ing of  bee-hunting;  he  can  tell  the  owner- 
ship of  every  stray  heifer  that  appears  upon 
the  road :  indeed,  scarce  an  inquiry  is  made, 
or  an  opinion  formed,  on  any  of  these  sub- 
jects, or  on  such  kindred  ones  as  the 
weather,  or  potato  crop,  without  previous 
consultation  with  "Captain  Dick". 

You  have  an  extraordinary  respect  for 
Captain  Dick:  his  gruff  tones,  dark  beard, 
patched  waistcoat,  and  cow-hide  boots, 
only  add  to  it ;  you  can  compare  your  re- 
gard for  him,  only  with  the  sentiments  you 
entertain  for  those  fabulous  Roman  heroes, 
led  on  by  Horatius,  who  cut  down  the 
bridge  across  the  Tiber,  and  then  swam  over 
to  their  wives  and  families. 

A  superannuated  old  greyhound  lives 
about  the  premises,  and  stalks  lazily  around, 


A    NEW    ENGLAND   SQUIRE  87 

thrusting  his  thin  nose  into  your  hands  in  a 
very  affectionate  manner. 

Of  course,  in  your  way,  you  are  a  lion 
among  the  boys  of  the  neighborhood  :  a  blue 
jacket  that  you  wear,  with  bell  buttons  of 
white  metal,  is  their  especial  wonderment. 
You  astonish  them,  moreover,  with  your 
stories  of  various  parts  of  the  world  which 
they  have  never  visited.  They  tell  you  of 
the  haunts  of  rabbits,  and  great  snake 
stories,  as  you  sit  in  the  dusk  after  supper, 
under  the  old  oak :  and  you  delight  them, 
in  turn,  with  some  marvelous  tale  of  South 
American  reptiles,  out  of  Peter  Parley's 
books. 

In  all  this,  your  new  friends  are  men  of 
observation,  while  Frank  and  yourself  are 
comparatively  men  of  reading.  In  cipher- 
ing, and  all  schooling,  you  find  yourself  a 
long  way  before  them ;  and  you  talk  of  prob- 
lems, and  foreign  seas  and  Latin  declen- 
sions, in  a  way  that  sets  them  all  agape. 

As  for  the  little  country  girls,  their  bare 
legs  rather  stagger  your  notions  of  pro- 
priety; nor  can  you  wholly  get  over  their 
outside  pronunciation  of  some  of  the  vow- 
els. Frank,  however,  has  a  little  cousin — a 
toddling  wee  thing,  some  seven  years  your 


88  DREAM-LIFE 

junior,  who  has  a  rich  eye  for  an  infant. 
But,  alas,  its  color  means  nothing;  poor 
Fanny  is  stone  blind !  Your  pity  leans 
toward  her  strangely,  as  she  feels  her  way 
about  the  old  parlor;  and  her  dark  eyes 
wander  over  the  wainscot,  or  over  the  clear 
blue  sky,  with  the  same  sad  painful  vacancy. 

And  yet,  she  does  not  grieve :  there  is  a 
sweet  soft  smile  upon  her  lip — a  smile  that 
will  come  to  you  in  your  fancied  troubles  of 
after  life,  with  a  deep  voice  of  reproach. 

Altogether,  you  grow  into  a  liking  of  the 
country:  your  boyish  spirit  loves  its  fresh 
bracing  air  and  the  sparkles  of  dew  that  at 
sunrise  cover  the  hills  with  diamonds ;  and 
the  wild  river,  with  its  black-topped,  loiter- 
ing pools ;  and  the  shaggy  mists  that  lie,  in 
the  nights  of  early  autumn,  like  unraveled 
clouds,  lost  upon  the  meadow.  You  love 
the  hills,  climbing  green  and  grand  to  the 
skies,  or  stretching  away  in  distance,  their 
soft,  blue,  smoky  caps,  like  the  sweet  half- 
faded  memories  of  the  years  behind  you. 
You  love  those  oaks  tossing  up  their  broad 
arms  into  clear  heaven,  with  a  spirit  and  a 
strength  that  kindles  your  dawning  pride 
and  purposes ;  and  that  makes  you  yearn,  as 
your  forehead  mantles  with  fresh  blood,  for 


o 


o  o 

A   NEW    ENGLAND   SQUIRE  8Q 

. 

a  kindred  spirit,  and  a  kindred  strength. 
Above  all,  you  love — though  you  do  not 
know  it  now — the  BREADTH  of  a  country 
life.  In  the  fields  of  God's  planting,  there 
is  ROOM.  No  walls  of  brick  and  mortar 
cramp  one:  no  factitious  distinctions  mold 
your  habit.  The  involuntary  reaches  of  the 
spirit  tend  toward  the  True,  and  the  Nat- 
ural. The  flowers,  the  clouds,  and  the  fresh- 
smelling  earth,  all  give  width  to  your  intent. 
The  boy  grows  into  manliness,  instead  of 
growing  to  be  like  men.  He  claims — with 
tears  almost  of  brotherhood — his  kinship 
with  nature ;  and  he  feels,  in  the  mountains, 
his  heirship  to  the  Father  of  nature ! 

This  delirium  of  feeling  may  not  find  ex- 
pression upon  the  lip  of  the  boy ;  but  yet  it 
underlies  his  thought,  and  will,  without  his 
consciousness,  give  the  spring  to  his  musing 
dreams. 

So  it  is,  that  as  you  lie  there  upon  the 
sunny  greensward  at  the  old  squire's  door, 
you  muse  upon  the  time  when  some  rich 
lying  land,  with  huge  granaries,  and  cozy 
old  mansion  sleeping  under  the  trees,  shall 
be  yours ;  when  the  brooks  shall  water  your 
meadows,  and  come  laughing  down  your 
pasture  lands;  when  the  clouds  shall  shed 


QO  DREAM-LIFE 

their  spring  fragrance  upon  your  lawns,  and 
the  daisies  bless  your  paths. 

You  will  then  be  a  squire,  with  your  cane, 
your  lean-limbed  hound,  your  stocking  leg 
of  specie,  and  your  snuff-box.  You  will  be 
the  happy  and  respected  husband  of  some 
tidy  old  lady  in  black,  and  spectacles,  a  lit- 
tle phthisicky,  like  Frank's  grandmother — 
and  an  accomplished  cook  of  stewed  pears, 
and  johnny-cakes ! 

It  seems  a  very  lofty  ambition,  at  this 
stage  of  growth,  to  reach  such  eminence  as 
to  convert  your  drawer  in  the  wainscot,  that 
has  a  secret  spring,  into  a  bank  for  the 
country  people ;  and  the  power  to  send  a 
man  to  jail  seems  one  of  those  stretches  of 
human  prerogative  to  which  few  of  your 
fellow  mortals  can  ever  hope  to  attain. 

Well,  it  may  all  be.  And  who  knows  but 
the  dreams  of  age,  when  they  are  reached, 
will  be  lighted  by  the  same  spirit  and  free- 
dom of  nature,  that  is  around  you  now? 
Who  knows,  but  that  after  tracking  you 
through  the  spring,  and  the  summer  of 
youth,  we  shall  find  frosted  age  settling 
upon  you  heavily  and  solemnly,  in  the  very 
fields  where  you  wanton  to-day? 

This  American  life  of  ours  is  full  of  tor- 
tuous and  shifting  impulses.  It  brings  age 


A   NEW   ENGLAND    SQUIRE 

back  from  years  of  wandering  to  totter  in 
the  hamlet  of  its  birth  ;  and  it  scatters  armies 
of  ripe  manhood  to  bleach  far-away  shores 
with  their  bones. 

That  Providence,  whose  eye  and  hand  are 
the  spy  and  the  executioner  of  the  fateful 
changes  of  our  life,  may  bring  you  back  in 
manhood,  or  in  age,  to  this  mountain  home 
of  New  England ;  and  that  very  willow 
yonder,  which  your  fancy  now  makes  the 
graceful  mourner  of  your  leave,  may  one 
day  shadow  mournfully  your  grave ! 


o 


VII 


THE   COUNTRY    CHURCH 

THE  COUNTRY  church  is  a  square  old 
building  of  wood,  without  paint  or  decora- 
tion— and  of  that  genuine  Puritanic  stamp, 
which  is  now  fast  giving  way  to  Greek 
porticos,  and  to  cockney  towers.  It  stands 
upon  a  hill  with  a  little  churchyard  in  its 
rear,  where  one  or  two  sickly-looking  trees 
keep  watch  and  ward  over  the  vagrant 
sheep  that  graze  among  the  graves.  Bram- 
ble-bushes seem  to  thrive  on  the  bodies  be- 
low, and  there  is  no  flower  in  the  little  yard 
save  a  few  goldenrods,  which  flaunt  their 
gaudy  inodorous  color  under  the  lee  of  the 
northern  wall. 

New  England  country-livers  have  as  yet 
been  very  little  inoculated  with  the  senti- 
ment of  beauty ;  even  the  door-step  to  the 
church  is  a  wide  flat  stone,  that  shows  not  a 
single  stroke  of  the  hammer.  Within,  the 
simplicity  is  even  more  severe.  Brown  gal- 
leries run  around  three  sides  of  the  old 
92 


o 

THE   COUNTRY   CHURCH  93 

building,  supported  by  timbers,  on  which 
you  still  trace,  under  the  stains  from  the 
leaky  roof,  the  deep  scoring  of  the  wood- 
man's ax. 

Below,  the  unpainted  pews  are  ranged  in 
square  forms,  and  by  age  have  gained  the 
color  of  those  fragmentary  wrecks  of  cigar 
boxes,  which  you  see  upon  the  top  shelves 
in  the  barrooms  of  country  taverns.  The 
minister's  desk  is  lofty,  and  has  once  been 
honored  with  a  coating  of  paint ;  as  well  as 
the  huge  sounding-board,  which,  to  your 
great  amazement,  protrudes  from  the  wall, 
at  a  very  dangerous  angle  of  inclination, 
over  the  speaker's  head.  As  the  squire's 
pew  is  the  place  of  honor,  to  the  right  of  the 
pulpit,  you  have  a  little  tremor  yourself  at 
sight  of  the  heavy  sounding-board,  and  can 

(not  forbear  indulging  in  a  quiet  feeling  of 
relief  when  the  last  prayer  is  said. 
There  are  in  the  squire's  pew  long,  faded 
crimson  cushions,  which,  it  seems  to  you, 
must  date  back  nearly  to  the  commencement 
of  the  Christian  era  in  this  country.  There 
are  also  sundry  old  thumb-worn  copies  of 
Doctor  Dwight's  Version  of  the  Psalms  of 
David — "appointed  to  be  sung  in  churches, 
by  authority  of  the  General  Association  of 
the  State  of  Connecticut."  The  sides  of 


94  DREAM-LIFE 

Doctor  Dwight's  Version  are,  you  observe, 
sadly  warped  and  weather-stained;  and 
from  some  stray  figures  which  appear  upon 
a  fly-leaf  you  are  constrained  to  think  that 
the  squire  has  sometimes  employed  a  quiet 
interval  of  the  service  with  reckoning  up 
the  contents  of  the  old  stocking  leg  at  home. 

The  parson  is  a  stout  man,  remarkable  in 
your  opinion  chiefly  for  a  yellowish-brown 
wig,  a  strong  nasal  tone,  and  occasional 
violent  thumps  upon  the  little  dingy,  red 
velvet  cushion,  studded  with  brass  tacks,  at 
the  top  of  the  desk.  You  do  not  altogether 
admire  his  style ;  and  by  the  time  he  has  en- 
tered upon  his  "fourthly,"  you  give  your 
attention,  in  despair,  to  a  new  reading  (it 
must  be  the  twentieth)  of  the  preface  to 
Doctor  Dwight's  Version  of  the  Psalms. 

The  singing  has  a  charm  for  you.  There 
is  a  long,  thin-faced,  flax-haired  man,  who 
carries  a  tuning-fork  in  his  waistcoat  pocket, 
and  who  leads  the  choir.  His  position  is 
in  the  very  front  rank  of  the  gallery  benches, 
facing  the  desk ;  and  by  the  time  the  old 
clergyman  has  read  two  verses  of  the  psalm, 
the  country  chorister  turns  around  to  his 
little  group  of  aids — consisting  of  the  black- 
smith, a  carroty-headed  schoolmaster,  two 


THE    COUNTRY   CHURCH  95 

women  in  snuff-colored  silks,  and  a  girl  in 
pink  bonnet — to  announce  the  tune. 

This  being  done  in  an  authoritative  man- 
ner, he  lifts  his  long  music  book — glances 
again  at  his  little  company — clears  his  throat 
by  a  powerful  ahem,  followed  by  a  powerful 
use  of  a  bandanna  pocket-handkerchief — 
draws  out  his  tuning-fork,  and  waits  for  the 
parson  to  close  his  reading.  He  now  re- 
views once  more  his  company — throws  a 
reproving  glance  at  the  young  woman  in  the 
pink  hat,  who  at  the  moment  is  biting  off  a 
stout  bunch  of  fennel — lifts  his  music  book 
— thumps  upon  the  rail  with  his  fork — lis- 
tens keenly — gives  a  slight  ahem — falls 
into  the  cadence — swells  into  a  strong 
crescendo — catches  at  the  first  word  of  the 
line  as  if  he  were  afraid  it  might  get  away 
— turns  to  his  company — lifts  his  music 
book  with  spirit — gives  it  a  powerful  slap 
with  the  disengaged  hand,  and  with  a  ma- 
jestic toss  of  the  head,  soars  away,  with 
half  the  women  below  straggling  on  in 
his  wake,  into  some  such  brave  old  melody 
as — LITCH  FIELD! 

Being  a  visitor,  and  in  the  squire's  pew, 
you  are  naturally  an  object  of  considerable 
attention  to  the  girls  about  your  age;  as 


o 


96 


DREAM-LIFE 


0 


well  as  to  a  great  many  fat  old  ladies  in 
iron  spectacles,  who  mortify  you  excessive- 
ly by  patting  you  under  the  chin  after 
church ;  and  insist  upon  mistaking  you  for 
Frank ;  and  force  upon  you  very  dry  cookies, 
spiced  with  caraway  seeds. 

You  keep  somewhat  shy  of  the  young 
ladies,  as  they  are  rather  stout  for  your  no- 
tions of  beauty;  and  wear  thick  calf-skin 
boots.  They  compare  very  poorly  with 
Jenny.  Jenny,  you  think,  would  be  above 
eating  gingerbread  between  service.  None 
of  them,  you  imagine,  ever  read  Thaddeus 
of  Warsaw,  or  ever  used  a  colored  glass 
seal  with  a  heart  upon  it.  You  are  quite 
certain  they  never  did,  or  they  could  not, 
surely,  wear  such  dowdy  gowns,  and  suck 
their  thumbs  as  they  do ! 

The  farmers  you  have  a  high  respect  for ; 
particularly  for  one  weazen-faced  old  gen- 
tleman in  a  brown  surtout,  who  brings  his 
whip  into  church  with  him,  who  sings  in  a 
very  strong  voice,  and  who  drives  a  span  of 
gray  colts.  You  think,  however,  that  he 
has  got  rather  a  stout  wife ;  and  from  the 
way  he  humors  her  in  stopping  to  talk  with 
two  or  three  other  fat  women,  before  setting 
off  for  home  (though  he  seems  a  little 
fidgety),  you  naively  think  that  he  has  a 


9 


THE   COUNTRY  CHURCH 


97 


high  regard  for  her  opinion.  Another  towns- 
man who  attracts  your  notice  is  a  stout  old 
deacon,  who  before  entering  always  steps 
around  the  corner  of  the  church,  and  puts 
his  hat  upon  the  ground,  to  adjust  his  wig 
in  a  quiet  way.  He  then  marches  up  the 
broad  aisle  in  a  stately  manner,  and  plants 
his  hat,  and  a  big  pair  of  buckskin  mittens, 
on  the  little  table  under  the  desk.  When  he 
is  fairly  seated  in  his  corner  of  the  pew, 
with  his  elbow  upon  the  top-rail — almost 
the  only  man  who  can  comfortably  reach 
it — you  observe  that  he  spreads  his  brawny 
fingers  over  his  scalp,  in  an  exceedingly 
cautious  manner ;  and  you  innocently  think 
again  that  it  is  very  hypocritical  in  a  dea- 
con to  be  pretending  to  lean  upon  his  hand 
when  he  is  only  keeping  his  wig  straight. 

After  the  morning  service,  they  have  an 
"hour's  intermission,"  as  the  preacher  calls 
it,  during  which  the  old  men  gather  on  a 
sunny  side  of  the  building,  and  after  shak- 
ing hands  all  around,  and  asking  after  the 
"folks"  at  home,  they  enjoy  a  quiet  talk 
about  crops.  One  man,  for  instance, 
with  a  twist  in  his  nose,  would  say,  "it's 
raether  a  growin'  season ;"  and  another 
would  reply — "tolerable,  but  potatoes  is 
feelin'  the  wet  badly."  The  stout  deacon 


9 


I  DREAM-LIFE 

approves  this  opinion,  and  confirms  it  by 
blowing  his  nose  very  powerfully. 

Two  or  three  of  the  more  worldly-minded 
ones  will  perhaps  stroll  over  to  a  neigh- 
bor's barnyard,  and  take  a  look  at  his  young 
stock,  and  talk  of  prices,  and  whittle  a  lit- 
tle; and  very  likely  some  two  of  them  will 
make  a  conditional  "swap"  of  "three  likely 
ye'rlings,"  for  a  pair  of  "two-year-olds." 

The  youngsters  are  fond  of  getting  out 
into  the  graveyard,  and  comparing  jack- 
knives,  or  talking  about  the  schoolmaster, 
or  the  menagerie;  or,  it  may  be,  of  some 
prospective  "travel"  in  the  fall — either  to 
town,  or  perhaps  to  the  "seashore." 

Afternoon  service  hangs  heavily,  and  the 
tall  chorister  is  by  no  means  so  blithe,  or  so 
majestic  in  the  toss  of  his  head,  as  in  the 
morning.  A  boy  in  the  next  box  tries  to 
provoke  you  into  familiarity  by  dropping 
pellets  of  gingerbread  through  the  bars  of 
the  pew ;  but  as  you  are  not  accustomed  to 
that  way  of  making  acquaintance,  you  de- 
cline all  overtures. 

After  the  service  is  finished,  the  wagons, 
that  have  been  disposed  on  either  side  of  the 
road,  are  drawn  up  before  the  door.  The 
old  squire  meantime  is  sure  to  have  a  little 
chat  with  the  parson  before  he  leaves;  in 


o 


THE    COUNTRY   CHURCH 


99 


the  course  of  which,  the  parson  takes  occa- 
sion to  say  that  his  wife  is  a  little  ailing — 
"a  slight  touch,"  he  thinks,  "of  the  rheuma- 
tiz."  One  of  his  children,  too,  has  been 
troubled  with  the  "summer  complaint"  for 
a  day  or  two ;  but  he  thinks  that  a  dose  of 
catnip,  under  Providence,  will  effect  a  cure. 
The  younger  and  unmarried  men,  with  red 
wagons  flaming  upon  bright  yellow  wheels, 
make  great  efforts  to  drive  off  in  the  van ; 
and  they  spin  frightfully  near  some  of  the 
fat  sour-faced  women,  who  remark  in  a 
quiet  but  not  very  Christian  tone  that 
"they  fear  the  elder's  sermon  hasn't  done 
the  young  bucks  much  good."  It  is  much 
to  be  feared,  in  truth,  that  it  has  not. 

In  ten  minutes  the  old  church  is  thor- 
oughly deserted ;  the  neighbor  who  keeps 
the  key  has  locked  up  for  another  week  the 
creaking  door ;  and  nothing  of  the  service 
remains  within,  except — Doctor  Dwight's 
Version — the  long  music  books — crumbs  of 
gingerbread,  and  refuse  stalks  of  despoiled 
fennel. 

And  yet,  under  the  influence  of  that  old 
weather-stained  temple,  are  perhaps  grow- 
ing up — though  you  do  not  once  fancy  it — 
souls,  possessed  of  an  energy,  an  industry, 
and  a  respect  for  virtue,  which  will  make 


o 

IOO  DREAM-LIFE 


O 


them  stronger  for  the  real  work  of  life, 
than  all  the  elegant  children  of  a  city.  One 
lesson,  which  even  the  rudest  churches  of 
New  England  teach — with  all  their  harsh- 
ness, and  all  their  repulsive  severity  of  form 
— is  the  lesson  of  SELF-DENIAL.  Once 
armed  with  that,  and  manhood  is  strong. 
The  soul  that  possesses  the  consciousness  of 
mastering  passion  is  endowed  with  an  ele- 
ment of  force  that  can  never  harmonize 
with  defeat.  Difficulties  it  wears  like  a 
summer  garment,  and  flings  away  at  the 
first  approach  of  the  winter  of  NEED. 

Let  not  any  one  suppose,  then,  that  in  this 
detail  of  country  life,  through  which  our 
hero  is  led,  I  would  cast  obloquy,  or  a  sneer 
upon  its  simplicity,  or  upon  its  lack  of  re- 
finement. Goodness  and  strength  in  this 
world  are  quite  as  apt  to  wear  rough  coats 
as  fine  ones.  And  the  words  of  thorough 
and  self-sacrificing  kindness  are  far  more 
often  dressed  in  the  uncouth  sounds  of  re- 
tired life,  than  in  the  polished  utterance  of 
the  town.  Heaven  has  not  made  warm 
hearts  and  honest  hearts  distinguishable  by 
the  quality  of  the  covering.  True  diamonds 
need  no  work  of  the  artificer  to  reflect  and 
multiply  their  rays.  Goodness  is  more 


THE    COUNTRY   CHURCH 


, 


within  than  without ;  and  purity  is  of  nearer 
kin  to  the  soul  than  to  the  body. 

And,  Clarence,  it  may  well  happen  that 
later  in  life — under  the  gorgeous  ceilings  of 
Venetian  churches,  or  at  some  splendid  mass 
of  Notre  Dame,  with  embroidered  coats  and 
costly  silks  around  you — your  thoughts  will 
run  back  to  that  little  storm-beaten  church, 
and  to  the  willow  waving  in  its  yard,  with 
a  hope  that  glows  and  with  a  tear  that  you 
embalm ! 


VIII 


A  HOME  SCENE 

AND  NOW  I  shall  not  leave  this  realm  of 
boyhood,  or  suffer  my  hero  to  slip  away 
from  this  gala  time  of  his  life,  without  a 
fair  look  at  that  home  where  his  present 
pleasures  lie,  and  where  all  his  dreams  be- 
gin and  end. 

Little  does  the  boy  know,  as  the  tide  of 
years  drifts  by,  floating  him  out  insensibly 
from  the  harbor  of  his  home  upon  the  great 
sea  of  life, — what  joys,  what  opportunities, 
what  affections,  are  slipping  from  him  into 
the  shades  of  that  inexorable  past,  where 
no  man  can  go,  save  on  the  wings  of  his 
dreams.  Little  does  he  think — and  God  be 
praised  that  the  thought  does  not  sink  deep 
lines  in  his  young  forehead — as  he  leans 
upon  the  lap  of  his  mother,  with  his  eye 
turned  to  her  in  some  earnest  pleading  for 
a  fancied  pleasure  of  the  hour,  or  in  some 
important  story  of  his  griefs,  that  such  shar- 
ing of  his  sorrows,  and  such  sympathy  with 
1 02 


A    HOME   SCENE  IO3 

his  wishes,  he  will  find  nowhere  in  the  world 
again. 

Little  does  he  imagine  that  the  fond 
Nelly,  ever  thoughtful  of  his  pleasure,  ever 
smiling  away  his  griefs,  will  soon  be  be- 
yond the  reach  of  either  ;  and  that  the  waves 
of  the  years,  which  come  rocking  so  gently 
under  him,  will  soon  toss  her  far  away,  upon 
the  great  swell  of  life. 

But  now,  you  are  there.  The  firelight 
glimmers  upon  the  walls  of  your  cherished 
home,  like  the  vestal  fire  of  old  upon  the 
figures  of  adoring  virgins,  or  like  the  flame 
of  Hebrew  sacrifice,  whose  incense  bore 
hearts  to  heaven.  The  big  chair  of  your 
father  is  drawn  to  its  wonted  corner  by  the 
chimney-side:  his  head,  just  touched  with 
gray,  lies  back  upon  its  oaken  top.  Little 
Nelly  leans  upon  his  knee,  looking  up  for 
some  reply  to  her  girlish  questionings.  Op- 
posite, sits  your  mother:  her  figure  is  thin, 
her  look  cheerful,  yet  subdued ;  her  arm 
perhaps  resting  on  your  shoulder,  as  she 
talks  to  you  in  tones  of  tender  admonition, 
of  the  days  that  are  to  come. 

The  cat  is  purring  on  the  hearth;  the 
clock  that  ticked  so  plainly  when  Charlie 
died,  is  ticking  on  the  mantel  still.  The 
great  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with 


o 


104 


DREAM -LIFE 


its  books  and  work,  waits  only  for  the  light- 
ing of  the  evening  lamp  to  see  a  return  to 
its  stores  of  embroidery  and  of  story. 

Upon  a  little  stand  under  the  mirror, 
which  catches  now  and  then  a  flicker  of  the 
firelight,  and  makes  it  play,  as  if  in  wanton, 
upon  the  ceiling,  lies  that  big  book  rever- 
enced of  your  New  England  parents — the 
Family  Bible.  It  is  a  ponderous  square  vol- 
ume, with  heavy  silver  clasps  that  you  have 
often  pressed  open  for  a  look  at  its  quaint 
old  pictures,  or  for  a  study  of  those  pret- 
tily bordered  pages,  which  lie  between  the 
Testaments,  and  which  hold  the  Family 
Record. 

There  are  the  Births :  your  father's  and 
your  mother's  ;  it  seems  as  if  they  were  born 
a  long  time  ago;  and  even  your  own  date 
of  birth  appears  an  almost  incredible  dis- 
tance back.  Then,  there  are  the  Marriages : 
only  one  as  yet,  and  your  mother's  maiden 
name  looks  oddly  to  you ;  it  is  hard  to  think 
of  her  as  any  one  else  than  your  doting 
parent.  You  wonder  if  your  name  will  ever 
come  under  that  paging;  and  wonder, 
though  you  scarce  whisper  the  wonder  to 
yourself,  how  another  name  would  look, 
just  below  yours — such  a  name  for  instance, 
as  Fanny — or  as  Miss  Margaret  Boyne ! 


A    HOME   SCENE 


105 


Last  of  all  come  the  Deaths — only  one. 
Poor  Charlie!  How  it  looks?  "Died  12 
September,  18 —  Charles  Henry,  aged  four 
years."  You  know  just  how  it  looks.  You 
have  turned  to  it  often ;  there,  you  seem  to 
be  joined  to  him,  though  only  by  the  turn- 
ing of  a  leaf.  And  over  your  thoughts,  as 
you  look  at  that  page  of  the  record,  there 
sometimes  wanders  a  vague  shadowy  fear, 
which  will  come — that  your  own  name  may 
soon  be  there.  You  try  to  drop  the  notion, 
as  if  it  were  not  fairly  your  own ;  you  affect 
to  slight  it,  as  you  would  slight  a  boy  who 
presumed  on  your  acquaintance,  but  whom 
you  have  no  desire  to  know.  It  is  a  common 
thing,  you  will  find,  in  our  work-a-day 
world  to  decline  familiarity  with  those  ideas 
that  fright  us. 

Yet  your  mother — how  strange  it  is! — 
has  no  fears  of  such  dark  fancies.  Even 
now,  as  you  stand  beside  her,  and  as  the 
twilight  deepens  in  the  room,  her  low  sil- 
very voice  is  stealing  upon  your  ear,  tell- 
ing you  that  she  can  not  be  long  with  you ; 
that  the  time  is  coming  when  you  must  be 
guided  by  your  own  judgment,  and  strug- 
gle with  the  world  unaided  by  the  friends 
of  your  boyhood.  There  is  a  little  pride, 
and  a  great  deal  more  of  anxiety,  in  your 


o  Q 

V^      106  DREAM-LIFE 

thoughts  now — as  you  look  steadfastly  into 
the  home  blaze,  while  those  delicate  fingers, 
so  tender  of  your  happiness,  play  with  the 
locks  upon  your  brow. 

To  struggle  with  the  world — that  is  a 
proud  thing;  to  struggle  alone — there  lies 
the  doubt !  Then  crowds  in  swift  upon  the 
calm  of  boyhood  the  first  anxious  thought 
of  youth  ;  then  chases  over  the  sky  of  spring 
the  first  heated  and  wrathful  cloud  of  sum- 
mer! 

But  the  lamps  are  now  lit  in  the  little  par- 
lor, and  they  shed  a  soft  haze  to  the  farthest 
corner  of  the  room ;  while  the  firelight 
streams  over  the  floor  where  puss  lies  pur- 
ring. Little  Madge  is  there ;  she  has  dropped 
in  softly  with  her  mother,  and  Nelly  has 
welcomed  her  with  a  bound,  and  with  a  kiss. 
Jenny  has  not  so  rosy  a  cheek  as  Madge. 
But  Jenny  with  her  love-notes,  and  her 
languishing  dark  eye,  you  think  of  as  a 
lady;  and  the  thought  of  her  is  a  constant 
drain  upon  your  sentiment.  As  for  Madge 
— that  girl  Madge,  whom  you  know  so  well 
— you  think  of  her  as  a  sister ;  atid  yet — it 
is  very  odd — you  look  at  her  far  oftener 
than  you  do  at  Nelly ! 

Frank,  too,  has  come  in  to  have  a  game 
with  you  at  draughts;  and  he  ie  in  capital 


A    HOME    SCENE 


ID/ 


spirits,  all  brisk  and  glowing  with  his  eve- 
ning's walk.  He — bless  his  honest  heart ! — 
never  observes  that  you  arrange  the  board 
very  adroitly,  so  that  you  may  keep  half 
an  eye  upon  Madge,  as  she  sits  yonder 
beside  Nelly.  Nor  does  he  once  notice  your 
blush  as  you  catch  her  eye  when  she  raises 
her  head  to  fling  back  her  ringlets  and 
then,  with  a  sly  look  at  you,  bends  a  most 
earnest  gaze  upon  the  board,  as  if  she  were 
especially  interested  in  the  disposition  of 
the  men. 

You  catch  a  little  of  the  spirit  of  coquetry 
yourself  (what  a  native  growth  it  is!)  and 
if  she  lift  her  eyes  when  you  are  gazing 
at  her,  you  very  suddenly  divert  your  look 
to  the  cat  at  her  feet  and  remark  to  your 
friend  Frank,  in  an  easy  offhand  way — how 
still  the  cat  is  lying! 

And  Frank  turns — thinking  probably,  if 
he  thinks  at  all  about  it,  that  cats  are  very 
apt  to  lie  still  when  they  sleep. 

As  for  Nelly,  half  neglected  by  your 
thought  as  well  as  by  your  eye,  while  mis- 
chievous-looking Madge  is  sitting  by  her, 
you  little  know  as  yet,  what  kindness — what 
gentleness,  you  are  careless  of.  Few  loves 
in  life,  and  you  will  learn  it  before  life  is 
done,  can  balance  the  lost  love  of  a  sister. 


1 08  DREAM -LIFE 

As  for  your  parents,  in  the  intervals  of 
the  game  you  listen  dreamily  to  their  talk 
with  the  mother  of  Madge — good  Mrs. 
Boyne.  It  floats  over  your  mind,  as  you 
rest  your  chin  upon  your  clenched  hand,  like 
a  strain  of  old  familiar  music — a  household 
strain  that  seems  to  belong  to  the  habit  of 
your  ear — a  strain  that  will  linger  about  it 
melodiously  for  many  years  to  come — a 
strain  that  will  be  recalled  long  time  hence, 
when  life  is  earnest  and  its  cares  heavy, 
with  tears  of  regret,  and  with  sighs  of  bit- 
terness. 

By  and  by  your  game  is  done ;  and  other 
games,  in  which  join  Nelly  (the  tears  come 
when  you  write  her  name,  now!)  and 
Madge  (the  smiles  come  when  you  look  on 
her  then)  stretch  out  that  sweet  eventide  of 
home,  until  the  lamp  flickers,  and  you  speak 
your  friends — adieu.  To  Madge,  it  is  said 
boldly — a  boldness  put  on  to  conceal  a  little 
lurking  tremor;  but  there  is  no  tremor  in 
the  home  good  night. 

Aye,  my  boy,  kiss  your  mother — kiss  her 
again;  fondle  your  sweet  Nelly;  pass  your 
little  hand  through  the  gray  locks  of  your 
father;  love  them  dearly,  while  you  can! 
Make  your  good  nights  linger ;  and  make 
your  adieus  long,  and  sweet,  and  often  re- 


Q 


A   HOME   SCENE 


109 


peated.  Love  with  your  whole  soul — father, 
mother,  and  sister;  for  these  loves  shall 
die! 

Not  indeed  in  thought :  God  be  thanked ! 
Nor  yet  in  tears — for  He  is  merciful!  But 
they  shall  die  as  the  leaves  die — die  as 
spring  dies  into  the  heat  and  ripeness  of 
summer,  and  as  boyhood  dies  into  the  elas- 
ticity and  ambition  of  youth.  Death,  dis- 
tance, and  time,  shall  each  one  of  them  dig 
graves  for  your  affections ;  but  this  you  do 
not  know,  nor  can  know,  until  the  story  of 
your  life  is  ended. 

The  dreams  of  riches,  of  love,  of  voyage, 
of  learning,  that  light  up  the  boy-age  with 
splendor,  will  pass  on  and  over  into  the 
hotter  dreams  of  youth.  Spring  buds  and 
blossoms,  under  the  glowing  sun  of  April, 
nurture  at  their  heart  those  firstlings  of 
fruit  which  the  heat  of  summer  shall  ripen. 

You  little  know — and  for  this  you  may 
well  thank  heaven — that  you  are  leaving 
the  spring  of  life,  and  that  you  are  floating 
fast  from  the  shady  sources  of  your  years, 
into  heat,  bustle,  and  storm.  Your  dreams 
are  now  faint  flickering  shadows,  that  play 
like  fireflies  in  the  coppices  of  leafy  June. 
They  have  no  rule,  but  the  rule  of  infantile 
desire.  They  have  no  joys  to  promise 


o 


1 10  DREAM-LIFE 

greater  than  the  joys  that  belong  to  your 
passing  life ;  they  have  no  terrors,  but  such 
terrors  as  the  darkness  of  a  spring  night 
makes.  They  do  not  take  hold  on  your  soul 
as  the  dreams  of  youth  and  manhood  will  do. 

Your  highest  hope  is  shadowed  in  a  cheer- 
ful boyish  home.  You  wish  no  friends  but 
the  friends  of  boyhood ;  no  sister  but  your 
fond  Nelly ;  none  to  love  better  than  the 
playful  Madge. 

You  forget,  Clarence,  that  the  spring  with 
you  is  the  spring  with  them;  and  that  the 
storms  of  summer  may  chase  wide  shadows 
over  your  path,  and  over  theirs.  And  you 
forget,  that  SUMMER  is  even  now  lowering 
with  its  mist,  and  with  its  scorching  rays, 
upon  the  hem  of  your  flowery  May ! 

The  hands  of  the  old  clock  upon  the  man- 
tel, that  ticked  off  the  hours  when  Charlie 
sighed,  and  when  Charlie  died,  draw  on 
toward  midnight.  The  shadows,  that  the 
fire-flame  makes,  grow  dimmer  and  dimmer. 
And  thus  it  is,  that  Home,  boy-home,  passes 
away  forever — like  the  swaying  of  a  pen- 
dulum— like  the  fading  of  a  shadow  on  the 
floor! 


~  "Tif  | "     t          |  ^  ( '         ~jl 


SUMMER 

OR 

DREAMS   OF 
YOUTH 


I  FEEL  a  great  deal  of  pity  for  those  hon- 
est but  misguided  people  who  call  their 
little  spruce  suburban  towns,  or  the  shaded 
streets  of  their  inland  cities — the  country ; 
and  I  have  still  more  pity  for  those  who 
reckon  a  season  at  the  summer  resorts — 
country  enjoyment.  Nay,  my  feeling  is 
more  violent  than  pity ;  and  I  count  it  noth- 
ing less  than  blasphemy  so  to  take  the  name 
of  the  country  in  vain. 

I  thank  heaven  every  summer's  day  of 
my  life,  that  my  lot  was  humbly  cast 
within  the  hearing  of  romping  brooks,  and 
beneath  the  shadow  of  oaks.  And  from 
all  the  tramp  and  bustle  of  the  world,  into 
which  fortune  has  led  me  in  these  latter 
years  of  my  life,  I  delight  to  steal  away 
for  days  and  for  weeks  together,  and  bathe 
my  spirit  in  the  freedom  of  the  old  woods ; 
and  to  grow  young  again,  lying  upon  the 


«4 


DREAM-LIFE 


brook  side  and  counting  the  white  clouds 
that  sail  along  the  sky,  softly  and  tranquilly 
— even  as  holy  memories  go  stealing  over 
the  vault  of  life. 

I  am  deeply  thankful  that  I  could  never 
find  it  in  my  heart  so  to  pervert  truth  as 
to  call  the  smart  villages  with  the  tricksy 
shadow  of  their  maple  avenues — the  coun- 
try. 

I  love  these  in  their  way ;  and  can  recall 
pleasant  passages  of  thought,  as  I  have 
idled  through  the  Sabbath-looking  towns, 
or  lounged  at  the  inn-door  of  some  quiet 
New  England  village.  But  I  love  far  better 
to  leave  them  behind  me  ;  and  to  dash  boldly 
out  to  where  some  out-lying  farmhouse  sits 
— like  a  witness — under  the  shelter  of 
wooded  hills,  or  nestles  in  the  lap  of  a 
noiseless  valley. 

In  the  town,  small  as  it  may  be,  and  dark- 
ened as  it  may  be  with  the  shadows  of  trees, 
you  can  not  forget — men.  Their  voice,  and 
strife,  and  ambition  come  to  your  eye  in 
the  painted  paling,  in  the  swinging  sign- 
board of  the  tavern,  and — worst  of  all — in 
the  trim-printed  "ATTORNEY  AT  LAW."  Even 
the  little  milliner's  shop,  with  its  meager 
show  of  leghorns,  and  its  string  across  the 
window  all  hung  with  tabs  and  with  cloth 


}, 


SUMMER  115 

roses,  is  a  sad  epitome  of  the  great  and  con- 
ventional life  of  a  city  neighborhood. 

I  like  to  be  rid  of  them  all,  as  I  am  rid 
of  them  this  midsummer's  day.  I  like  to 
steep  my  soul  in  a  sea  of  quiet,  with  noth- 
ing floating  past  me  as  I  lie  moored  to  my 
thought,  but  the  perfume  of  flowers,  and 
soaring  birds,  and  shadows  of  clouds. 

Two  days  since,  I  was  sweltering  in  the 
heat  of  the  city,  jostled  by  the  thousand 
eager  workers,  and  panting  under  the 
shadow  of  the  walls.  But  I  have  stolen 
away ;  and  for  two  hours  of  healthful  re- 
growth  into  the  darling  past,  I  have  been 
lying  this  blessed  summer's  morning  upon 
the  grassy  bank  of  a  stream  that  babbled 
me  to  sleep  in  boyhood.  Dear  old  stream, 
unchanging,  unfaltering — with  no  harsher 
notes  now  than  then — never  growing  old — 
smiling  in  your  silver  rustle,  and  calming 
yourself  in  the  broad  placid  pools — I  love 
you,  as  I  love  a  friend! 

But  now  that  the  sun  has  grown  scalding 
hot,  and  the  waves  of  heat  have  come  rock- 
ing under  the  shadow  of  the  meadow  oaks, 
I  have  sought  shelter  in  a  chamber  of  the 
old  farmhouse.  The  window-blinds  are 
closed ;  but  some  of  them  are  sadly  shat- 
tered, and  I  have  intertwined  in  them  a 


& 


n6 


DREAM -LIFE 


few  branches  of  the  late-blossoming  white 
azalia,  so  that  every  puff  of  the  summer  air 
comes  to  me  cooled  with  fragrance.  A 
dimple  or  two  of  the  sunlight  still  steals 
through  my  flowery  screen,  and  dances  (as 
the  breeze  moves  the  branches)  upon  the 
oaken  floor  of  the  farmhouse. 

Through  one  little  gap  indeed,  I  can  see 
the  broad  stretch  of  meadow,  and  the  work- 
men in  the  field  bending  and  swaying  to 
their  scythes.  I  can  see,  too,  the  glistening 
of  the  steel,  as  they  wipe  their  blades ;  and 
can  just  catch,  floating  on  the  air,  the  meas- 
ured tinkling  thwack  of  the  rifle-stroke. 

Here  and  there  a  lark,  scared  from  his 
feeding  place  in  the  grass,  soars  up,  bubbling 
forth  his  melody  in  globules  of  silvery 
sound,  and  settles  upon  some  tall  tree,  and 
waves  his  wings,  and  sinks  to  the  swaying 
twigs.  I  hear,  too,  a  quail  piping  from  the 
meadow  fence,  and  another  trilling  his  an- 
swering whistle  from  the  hills.  Nearer  by, 
a  tyrant  king-bird  is  poised  on  the  topmost 
branch  of  a  veteran  pear  tree ;  and  now  and 
then  dashes  down,  assassin-like,  upon  some 
home-bound,  honey-laden  bee,  and  then, 
with  a  smack  of  his  bill,  resumes  his  preda- 
tory watch. 


SUMMER  117 

A  chicken  or  two  lie  in  the  sun,  with  a 
wing  and  a  leg  stretched  out — lazily  picking 
at  the  gravel,  or  relieving  their  ennui  from 
time  to  time,  with  a  spasmodic  rustle  of 
their  feathers.  An  old  matronly  hen  stalks 
about  the  yard  with  a  sedate  step ;  and  with 
quiet  self-assurance,  she  utters  an  occasional 
series  of  hoarse  and  heated  clucks.  A 
speckled  turkey,  with  an  astonished  brood 
at  her  heels,  is  eying  curiously,  and  with 
earnest  variations  of  the  head,  a  full-fed 
cat,  that  lies  curled  up  and  dozing,  upon  the 
floor  of  the  cottage  porch. 

As  I  sit  thus,  watching  through  the  inter- 
stices of  my  leafy  screen,  the  various  images 
of  country  life,  I  hear  distant  mutterings 
from  beyond  the  hills. 

The  sun  has  thrown  its  shadow  upon  the 
pewter  dial  two  hours  beyond  the  meridian 
line.  Great  cream-colored  heads  of  thunder- 
clouds are  lifting  above  the  sharp  clear  line 
of  the  western  horizon ;  the  light  breeze  dies 
away,  and  the  air  becomes  stifling,  even  un- 
der the  shadow  of  my  withered  boughs  in 
the  chamber  window.  The  white-capped 
clouds  roll  up  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  sun ; 
and  the  creamy  masses  below  grow  dark 
in  their  seams.  The  mutterings  that  came 


n8 


DREAM-LIFE 


faintly  before,  now  spread  into  wide  vol- 
umes of  rolling  sound,  that  echo  again  and 
again  from  the  eastern  heights. 

I  hear  in  the  deep  intervals  the  men 
shouting  to  their  teams  in  the  meadows ; 
and  great  companies  of  startled  swallows 
are  dashing  in  all  directions  around  the 
gray  roofs  of  the  barn. 

The  clouds  have  now  well-nigh  reached 
the  sun,  which  seems  to  shine  the  fiercer 
for  his  coming  eclipse.  The  whole  west,  as 
I  look  from  the  sources  of  the  brook  to 
its  lazy  drift  under  the  swamps  that  lie  to 
the  south,  is  hung  with  a  curtain  of  dark- 
ness ;  and  like  swift-working  golden  ropes 
that  lift  it  toward  the  zenith,  long  chains 
of  lightning  flash  through  it ;  and  the  grow- 
ing thunder  seems  like  the  rumble  of  the 
pulleys. 

I  thrust  away  my  azalia  boughs,  and  fling 
back  the  shattered  blinds  as  the  sun  and  the 
clouds  meet ;  and  my  room  darkens  with 
the  coming  shadows.  For  an  instant  the 
edges  of  the  thick  creamy  masses  of  cloud 
are  gilded  by  the  shrouded  sun,  and  show 
gorgeous  scallops  of  gold,  that  toss  upon 
the  hem  of  the  storm.  But  the  blazonry 
fades  as  the  clouds  mount,  and  the  bright- 
ening lines  of  the  lightning  dart  up  from 


SUMMER  119 

the  lower  skirts,  and  heave  the  billowy 
masses  into  the  middle  heaven. 

The  workmen  are  urging  their  oxen  fast 
across  the  meadow ;  and  the  loiterers  come 
straggling  after,  with  rakes  upon  their 
shoulders.  The  matronly  hen  has  retreated 
to  the  stable  door ;  and  the  brood  of  turkeys 
stand,  dressing  their  feathers,  under  the 
open  shed. 

The  air  freshens,  and  blows  now  from 
the  face  of  the  coming  clouds.  I  see  the 
great  elms  in  the  plain  swaying  their  tops, 
even  before  the  storm-breeze  has  reached 
me ;  and  a  bit  of  ripened  grain  upon  a  swell 
of  the  meadow,  waves  and  tosses  like  a  bil- 
lowy sea. 

Presently  I  hear  the  rush  of  the  wind; 
and  the  cherry  and  pear  trees  rustle  through 
all  their  leaves;  and  my  paper  is  whisked 
away  by  the  intruding  blast. 

There  is  a  quiet  of  a  moment,  in  which 
the  wind  even  seems  weary  and  faint;  and 
nothing  finds  utterance  save  one  hoarse 
tree-toad,  doling  out  his  lugubrious  notes. 

Now  comes  a  blinding  flash  from  the 
clouds;  and  a  quick  sharp  clang  clatters 
through  the  heavens,  and  bellows  loud  and 
long  among  the  hills.  Then — like  great 
grief  spending  its  pent  agony  in  tears — 


120 


DREAM -LIFE 


come  the  big  drops  of  rain ;  pattering  on 
the  lawn,  and  on  the  leaves,  and  most  mu- 
sically of  all,  upon  the  roof  above  me ;  not 
now  with  the  light  dance  of  the  SPRING 
shower,  but  with  strong  steppings — like  the 
first  proud  tread  of  YOUTH  ! 


|ps?^^8 

Rj^f 

3 


CLOISTER    LIFE 

IT  HAS  very  likely  occurred  to  you,  my 
reader,  that  I  am  playing  the  wanton  in 
these  sketches;  and  am  breaking  through 
all  the  canons  of  the  writers  in  making 
You  my  hero. 

It  is  even  so;  for  my  work  is  a  story  of 
those  vague  feelings,  doubts,  passions,  which 
belong  more  or  less  to  every  man  of  us  all ; 
and  therefore  it  is  that  I  lay  upon  your 
shoulders  the  burden  of  these  dreams.  If 
this  or  that  one  never  belonged  to  your  ex- 
perience— have  patience  for  a  while.  I  feel 
sure  that  others  are  coming,  which  will  lie 
like  a  truth  upon  your  heart ;  and  draw  you 
unwittingly — perhaps  tearfully  even — into 
the  belief  that  You  are  indeed  my  hero. 

The  scene  now  changes  to  the  cloister 
of  a  college;  not  the  gray  classic  cloisters 
which  lie  along  the  banks  of  the  Cam  or  the 
Isis — huge  battered  hulks,  on  whose 
weather-stained  decks  great  captains  of 
learning  have  fought  away  their  lives;  nor 

121 


122 


DREAM-LIFE 


yet  the  cavernous  quadrangle  courts  that 
sleep  under  the  dingy  walls  of  the  Sor- 
bonne. 

The  youth-dreams  of  Clarence  begin  un- 
der the  roof  of  one  of  those  long  ungainly 
piles  of  brick  and  mortar  which  make  the 
colleges  of  New  England. 

The  floor  of  the  room  is  rough,  and  di- 
vided by  wide  seams.  The  study  table  does 
not  stand  firmly  without  a  few  spare  pen- 
nies to  prop  it  into  solid  footing.  The  book- 
case of  stained  fir  wood,  suspended  against 
the  wall  by  cords,  is  meagerly  stocked  with 
a  couple  of  lexicons,  a  pair  of  grammars, 
a  Euclid,  a  Xenophon,  a  Homer,  and  a 
Livy.  Beside  these  are  scattered  about 
here  and  there — a  thumb-worn  copy  of  Brit- 
ish ballads,  an  odd  volume  of  the  Sketch 
Book,  a  clumsy  Shakespeare,  and  a  pocket 
edition  of  the  Bible. 

With  such  appliances,  added  to  the  half 
score  of  professors  and  tutors  who  preside 
over  the  awful  precincts,  you  are  to  work 
your  way  up  to  that  proud  entry  upon  our 
American  life  which  begins  with  the  Bacca- 
laureate degree.  There  is  a  tingling  sensa- 
tion in  walking  first  under  the  shadow  of 
those  walls,  uncouth  as  they  are,  and  in  feel- 
ing that  you  belong  to  them ;  that  you  are  a 


CLOISTER   LIFE 


12 


member,  as  it  were,  of  the  body  corporate, 
subject  to  an  actyal  code  of  printed  laws, 
and  to  actual  moneyed  fines — varying  from 
a  shilling  to  fifty  cents ! 

There  is  something  exhilarating  in  the 
very  consciousness  of  your  subject  state; 
and  in  the  necessity  of  measuring  your 
hours  by  the  habit  of  such  a  learned  com- 
munity. You  think  back  upon  your  respect 
for  the  lank  figure  of  some  old  teacher  of 
boy  days  as  a  childish  weakness:  even  the 
little  coteries  of  the  home  fireside  lose  their 
importance  when  compared  with  the  ex- 
traordinary sweep  and  dignity  of  your  pres- 
ent position. 

It  is  pleasant  to  measure  yourself  with 
men;  and  there  are  those  about  you  who 
seem  to  your  untaught  eye  to  be  men  al- 
ready. Your  chum,  a  hard-faced  fellow  of 
ten  more  years  than  you,  digging  sturdily 
at  his  tasks,  seems  by  that  very  community 
of  work,  to  dignify  your  labor.  You  watch 
his  cold  gray  eye  bending  down  over  some 
theorem  of  Euclid,  with  a  kind  of  proud 
companionship  in  what  so  tasks  his  manli- 
ness. 

It  is  nothing  for  him  to  quit  sleep  at  the 
first  tinkling  of  the  alarm  clock  that  hangs 
in  your  chamber;  or  to  brave  the  weather 


124 


DREAM-LIFE 


in  that  cheerless  run  to  the  morning  prayers 
of  winter.  Yet  with  what  a  dreamy  horror 
you  wake  on  mornings  of  snow  to  that 
tinkling  alarm ! — and  glide  in  the  cold  and 
darkness  under  the  shadow  of  the  college 
walls,  shuddering  over  the  sharp  gusts 
that  come  sweeping  between  the  buildings ; 
and  afterward,  gathering  yourself  up  in 
your  cloak,  watch  in  a  sleepy  •  listless 
maze,  the  flickering  lamps  that  hang  around 
the  dreary  chapel !  You  follow  half  uncon- 
sciously some  tutor's  rhetorical  reading  of 
a  chapter  of  Isaiah ;  and  then,  as  he  closes 
the  Bible  with  a  flourish,  your  eye,  half 
open,  catches  the  feeble  figure  of  the  old 
dominie,  as  he  steps  to  the  desk,  and  with 
his  frail  hands  stretched  out  upon  the  cover 
of  the  big  book,  and  his  head  leaning 
slightly  to  one  side,  runs  through  in  gentle 
and  tremulous  tones,  his  wonted  form  of  in- 
vocation. 

Your  division  room  is  steaming  with  foul 
heat,  and  there  is  a  strong  smell  of  burned 
feathers  and  oil.  A  jaunty  tutor,  with  pug 
nose,  and  consequential  air,  steps  into  the 
room — while  you  all  rise  to  show  him  defer- 
ence— and  takes  his  place  at  the  pulpit-like 
desk.  Then  comes  the  formal  loosing  of 
his  camlet  cloak-clasp — the  opening  of  his 


CLOISTER    LIFE 


125 


sweaty  Xenophon  to  where  the  day's  para- 
sangs  begin — the  unsliding  of  his  silver  pen- 
cil-case, the  keen  sour  look  around  the 
benches,  and  the  cool  pinch  of  his  thumb 
and  forefinger,  into  the  fearful  box  of 
names ! 

How  you  listen  for  each  as  it  is  uttered — 
running  down  the  page  in  advance,  rejoicing 
when  some  hard  passage  comes  to  a  stout 
man  in  the  corner;  and  what  a  sigh  of  re- 
lief— on  mornings  after  you  have  been  out 
late  at  night — when  the  last  paragraph  is 
reached,  the  ballot  drawn,  and — you,  safe ! 

You  speculate  dreamily  upon  the  faces 
around  you.  You  wonder  what  sort  of 
schooling  they  may  have  had,  and  what  sort 
of  homes.  You  think  one  man  has  got  an 
extraordinary  name;  and  another,  a  still 
more  extraordinary  nose.  The  glib  easy 
way  of  one  student,  and  his  perfect  sang- 
froid, completely  charm  you ;  you  set  him 
down  in  your  own  mind  as  a  kind  of  Crich- 
ton.  Another  weazen-faced,  pinched-up  fel- 
low in  a  scant  cloak,  you  think  must  have 
been  sometime  a  schoolmaster :  he  is  so  very 
precise,  and  wears  such  an  indescribable 
look  of  the  ferule.  There  is  one  big  stu- 
dent, with  a  huge  beard,  and  a  rollicking 
good-natured  eye,  whom  you  would  quite 


1 


126  DREAM-LIFE 

like  to  see  measure  strength  with  your  old 
schoolmaster;  and  on  careful  comparison, 
rather  think  the  schoolmaster  would  get  the 
worst  of  it.  Another  appears  as  venerable 
as  some  fathers  you  have  seen ;  and  it  seems 
wonderfully  odd  that  a  man  old  enough  to 
have  children  should  recite  Xenophon  by 
morning  candle-light ! 

The  class  in  advance  you  study  curious- 
ly ;  and  are  quite  amazed  at  the  precocity  of 
certain  youths  belonging  to  it,  who  are  ap- 
parently about  your  own  age.  The  jun- 
iors you  look  upon  with  a  quiet  reverence 
for  their  aplomb  and  dignity  of  character; 
and  look  forward  with  intense  yearnings 
to  the  time  when  you,  too,  shall  be  admitted 
freely  to  the  precincts  of  the  philosophical 
chamber,  and  to  the  very  steep  benches  of 
the  laboratory.  This  last  seems,  from  oc- 
casional peeps  through  the  blinds,  a  most 
mysterious  building.  The  chimneys,  re- 
cesses, vats,  and  cisterns — to  say  nothing  of 
certain  galvanic  communications,  which, 
you  are  told,  traverse  the  whole  building  in 
a  way  capable  of  killing  a  rat,  at  an  incredi- 
ble remove  from  the  bland  professor — utter- 
ly fatigue  your  wonder !  You  humbly  trust 
— though  you  have  doubts  upon  the  point — 
that  you  will  have  the  capacity  to  grasp  it 


CLOISTER   LIFE 


k 
I27 


all,  when  once  you  shall  have  arrived  at  the 
dignity  of  a  junior. 

As  for  the  seniors,  your  admiration  for 
them  is  entirely  boundless.  In  one  or  two 
individual  instances,  it  is  true,  it  has  been 
broken  down  by  an  unfortunate  squabble 
with  thick-set  fellows  in  the  chapel  aisle. 
A  person  who  sits  not  far  before  you  at 
prayers  and  whose  name  you  seek  out  very 
early,  bears  a  strong  resemblance  to  some 
portrait  of  Doctor  Johnson ;  you  have  very 
much  the  same  kind  of  respect  for  him  that 
you  feel  for  the  great  lexicographer ;  and  do 
not  for  a  moment  doubt  his  capacity  to  com- 
pile a  dictionary  equal,  if  not  superior,  to 
Johnson's. 

Another  man  with  very  bushy  black  hair, 
and  an  easy  look  of  importance,  carries  a 
large  cane,  and  is  represented  to  you  as  an 
astonishing  scholar  and  speaker.  You  do 
not  doubt  it ;  his  very  air  proclaims  it.  You 
think  of  him  as  presently — say  four  or  five 
years  hence — astounding  the  United  States 
Senate  with  his  eloquence.  And  when  once 
you  have  heard  him  in  debate,  with  that 
ineffable  gesture  of  his,  you  absolutely  lan- 
guish in  your  admiration  for  him ;  and  you 
describe  his  speaking  to  your  country 
friends  as  very  little  inferior,  if  any,  to  Mr. 


128  DREAM-LIFE 

Burke's.  Beside  this  one  are  some  half 
dozen  others,  among  whom  the  question  of'" 
superiority  is,  you  understand,  strongly 
mooted.  It  puzzles  you  to  think  what  an 
avalanche  of  talent  will  fall  upon  the  coun- 
try at  the  graduation  of  these  seniors ! 

You  will  find,  however,  that  the  country 
bears  such  inundations  of  college  talent  with 
a  remarkable  degree  of  equanimity.  It  is 
quite  wonderful  how  all  the  Burkes,  and 
Scotts,  and  Peels,  among  college  seniors, 
do  quietly  disappear,  as  a  man  gets  on  in 
life. 

As  for  any  degree  of  fellowship  with  such 
giants,  it  is  an  honor  hardly  to  be  thought 
of.  But  you  have  a  classmate — I  will  call 
him  Dalton — who  is  very  intimate  with  a 
dashing  senior ;  they  room  near  each  other 
outside  the  college.  You  quite  envy  Dalton, 
and  you  come  to  know  him  well.  He  says 
that  you  are  not  a  "green-one",  that  you 
have  "cut  your  eye  teeth" ;  in  return  for 
which  complimentary  opinions,  you  enter- 
tain a  strong  friendship  for  Dalton. 

He  is  a  "fast"  fellow,  as  the  senior  calls 
him;  and  it  is  a  proud  thing  to  happen 
at  their  rooms  occasionally,  and  to  match 
yourself  for  an  hour  or  two  (with  the 
windows  darkened)  against  a  senior  at 


CLOISTER   LIFE 


I29 


"old  sledge."  It  is  quite  "the  thing",  as 
Dalton  says,  to  meet  a  senior  familiarly  in 
the  street.  Sometimes  you  go,  after  Dalton 
has  taught  you  "the  ropes",  to  have  a  cozy 
sit-down  over  oysters  and  champagne,  to 
which  the  senior  lends  himself  (you  having 
lent  the  money)  with  the  pleasantest  conde- 
scension in  the  world.  You  are  not  alto- 
gether used  to  hard  drinking ;  but  this  you 
conceal — as  most  spirited  young  fellows  do 
— by  drinking  a  great  deal.  You  have  a 
dim  recollection  of  certain  circumstances — 
very  unimportant,  yet  vividly  impressed  on 
your  mind — which  occurred  at  one  of  these 
occasions. 

The  oysters  were  exceedingly  fine,  and  the 
champagne — exquisite.  You  have  a  recol- 
lection of  something  being  said,  toward  the 
end  of  the  first  bottle,  of  Xenophon,  and  of 
the  senior's  saying  in  his  playful  way, 
"Oh,  d — n  Xenophon !" 

You  remember  Dalton  laughed  at  this ; 
and  you  laughed — for  company.  You  re- 
member that  you  thought,  and  Dalton 
thought,  and  the  senior  thought,  by  a  sin- 
gular coincidence,  that  the  second  bottle  of 
champagne  was  better  even  than  the  first. 
You  have  a  dim  remembrance  of  the  sen- 
ior's saying  very  loudly,  "Clarence  (calling 


0 


;.      130  DREAM-LIFE 

you  by  your  family  name)  is  no  spoony" ; 
and  drinking  a  bumper  with  you  in  con- 
firmation of  the  remark. 

You  remember  that  Dalton  broke  out  into 
a  song,  and  that  for  a  time  you  joined  in 
the  chorus ;  you  think  the  senior  called  you 
to  order  for  repeating  the  chorus  in  the 
wrong  place.  You  think  the  lights  burned 
with  remarkable  brilliancy ;  and  you  remem- 
ber that  a  remark  of  yours  to  that  effect 
met  with  very  much  such  a  response  from 
the  senior  as  he  had  before  employed  with 
reference  to  Xenophon. 

You  have  a  confused  idea  of  calling  Dal- 
ton— Xenophon.  You  think  the  meeting 
broke  up  with  a  chorus ;  and  that  somebody 
— you  can  not  tell  who — broke  two  or  three 
glasses.  You  remember  questioning  your- 
self very  seriously  as  to  whether  you  were, 
or  were  not,  tipsy.  You  think  you  decided 
that  you  were  not,  but — might  be. 

You  have  a  confused  recollection  of  lean- 
ing upon  some  one,  or  something,  going  to 
your  room;  this  sense  of  a  desire  to  lean, 
you  think,  was  very  strong.  You  remember 
being  horribly  afflicted  with  the  idea  of  hav- 
ing tried  your  night-key  at  the  tutor's  door, 
instead  of  your  own;  you  remember  fur- 
ther a  hot  stove — made  certain,  indeed,  by 


CLOISTER   LIFE 

a  large  blister  which  appeared  on  your  hand 
next  day.  You  think  of  throwing  off  your 
clothes,  by  one  or  two  spasmodic  efforts — 
leaning,  in  the  intervals,  against  the  bed- 
post. 

There  is  a  recollection  of  an  uncommon 
dizziness  afterward — as  if  your  body  was 
very  quiet,  and  your  head  gyrating  with 
strange  velocity,  and  a  kind  of  centrifugal 
action,  all  about  the  room,  and  the  college, 
and  indeed  the  whole  town.  You  think  that 
you  felt  uncontrollable  nausea  after  this, 
followed  by  positive  sickness ;  which  waked 
your  chum,  who  thought  you  very  incoher- 
ent, and  feared  derangement. 

A  dismal  state  of  lassitude  follows,  broken 
by  the  college  clock  striking  three,  and  by 
very  rambling  reflections  upon  champagne, 
Xenophon,  "Captain  Dick,"  Madge,  and  the 
old  deacon  who  clenched  his  wig  in  the 
church. 

The  next  morning  (ah,  how  vexatious 
that  all  our  follies  are  followed  by  a  "next 
morning !")  you  wake  with  a  parched  mouth 
and  a  torturing  thirst;  the  sun  is  shining 
broadly  into  your  reeking  chamber. 
Prayers  and  recitations  are  long  ago  over; 
and  you  see  through  the  door,  in  the  outer 
room,  that  hard-faced  chum,  with  his  lex- 


I32 


DREAM-LIFE 


icon  and  Livy  open  before  him,  working 
out  with  all  the  earnestness  of  his  iron  pur- 
pose the  steady  steps  toward  preferment 
and  success. 

You  go  with  some  story  of  sudden  sick- 
ness to  the  tutor ;  half  tearful  that  the  blood- 
shot swollen  eyes  will  betray  you.  It  is 
very  mortifying-,  too,  to  meet  Dalton  ap- 
pearing so  gay  and  lively  after  it  all,  while 
you  wear  such  an  air  of  being  "used  up." 
You  envy  him  thoroughly  the  extraordinary 
capacity  that  he  has. 

Here  and  there  creeps  in,  amid  all  the 
pride  and  shame  of  the  new  life,  a  tender 
thought  of  the  old  home ;  but  its  joys  are 
joys  no  longer;  its  highest  aspirations  even 
have  resolved  themselves  into  fine  mist — 
like  rainbows  that  the  sun  drinks  with  his 
beams. 

The  affection  for  a  mother,  whose  kind- 
ness you  recall  with  a  suffused  eye,  is  not 
gone,  or  blighted ;  but  it  is  woven  up,  as 
only  a  single  adorning  tissue,  into  the  grow- 
ing pride  of  youth;  it  is  cherished  in  the 
proud  soul  rather  as  a  redeeming  weakness 
than  as  a  vital  energy. 

And  the  love  for  Nelly,  though  it  bates 
no  jot  of  fervor,  is  woven  into  the  scale  of 


CLOISTER   LIFE 


133 


growing  purposes  rather  as  a  color  to  adorn 
than  as  a  strand  to  strengthen. 

As  for  your  other  loves,  those  romantic 
ones,  which  were  kindled  by  bright  eyes, 
and  the  stolen  reading  of  Miss  Porter's 
novels,  they  linger  on  your  mind  like  per- 
fumes ;  and  they  float  down  your  memory, 
with  the  figure,  the  step,  the  last  words  of 
those  young  girls  who  created  them — like 
the  types  of  some  dimly  shadowed  but  deep- 
er passion,  which  is  sometime  to  spur  your 
maturer  purposes,  and  to  quicken  your 
manly  resolves. 

It  would  be  hard  to  tell,  for  you  do  not 
as  yet  know,  but  that  Madge  herself — hoy- 
denish  blue-eyed  Madge — is  to  be  the  very 
one  who  will  gain  such  hold  upon  your 
riper  affections,  as  she  has  held  already 
over  your  boyish  caprice.  It  is  a  part  of 
the  pride — I  may  say  rather  an  evidence  of 
the  pride,  which  youth  feels  in  leaving  boy- 
hood behind  him,  to  talk  laughingly  and 
carelessly  of  those  attachments  which  made 
his  young  years  so  balmy  with  dreams. 


II 


FIRST   AMBITION 

I  BELIEVE  that  sooner  or  later  there  come 
to  every  man,  dreams  of  ambition.  They 
may  be  covered  with  the  sloth  of  habit,  or 
with  a  pretense  of  humility :  they  may  come 
only  in  dim  shadowy  visions,  that  feed  the 
eye  like  the  glories  of  an  ocean  sunrise ; 
but  you  may  be  sure  that  they  will  come: 
even  before  one  is  aware,  the  bold  adven- 
turous goddess,  whose  name  is  Ambition, 
and  whose  dower  is  Fame,  will  be  toying 
with  the  feeble  heart.  And  she  pushes  her 
ventures  with  a  bold  hand :  she  makes  tim- 
idity strong,  and  weakness  valiant. 

The  way  of  a  man's  heart  will  be  fore- 
shadowed by  what  goodness  lies  in  him — 
coming  from  above,  and  from  around ;  but 
a  way  foreshadowed,  is  not  a  way  made. 
And  the  making  of  a  man's  way  comes  only 
from  that  quickening  of  resolve  which  we 
call  ambition.  It  is  the  spur  that  makes 
man  struggle  with  destiny:  it  is  heaven's 

134 


FIRST   AMBITION 


135 


own  incentive  to  make  purpose  great,  and 
achievement  greater. 

It  would  be  strange  if  you,  in  that  cloister 
life  of  a  college,  did  not  sometimes  feel  a 
dawning  of  new  resolves.  They  grapple 
you  indeed,  oftener  than  you  dare  to  speak 
of.  Here  you  dream  first  of  that  very 
sweet,  but  very  shadowy  success  called 
reputation. 

You  think  of  the  delight  and  astonish- 
ment it  would  give  your  mother  and  father, 
and  most  of  all,  little  Nelly,  if  you  were 
winning  such  honors  as  now  escape  you. 
You  measure  your  capacities  by  those  about 
you,  and  watch  their  habit  of  study;  you 
gaze  for  a  half-hour  together,  upon  some 
successful  man  who  has  won  his  prizes,  and 
wonder  by  what  secret  action  he  has  done 
it.  And  when,  in  time,  you  come  to  be  a 
competitor  yourself,  your  anxiety  is  im- 
mense. 

You  spend  hours  upon  hours  at  your 
theme.  You  write  and  rewrite;  and  when 
it  is  at  length  complete  and  out  of  your 
hands,  you  are  harassed  by  a  thousand 
doubts.  At  times,  as  you  recall  your  hours 
of  toil,  you  question  if  so  much  has  been 
spent  upon  any  other ;  you  feel  almost  cer- 
tain of  success.  You  repeat  to  yourself 


136 


DREAM-LIFE 


some  passages  of  special  eloquence,  at  night. 
You  fancy  the  admiration  of  the  professors 
at  meeting  with  such  a  wonderful  perform- 
ance. You  have  a  slight  fear  that  its  su- 
perior goodness  may  awaken  the  suspicion 
that  some  one  out  of  college — some  superior 
man — may  have  written  it.  But  this  fear 
dies  away. 

The  eventful  day  is  a  great  one  in  your 
calendar ;  you  hardly  sleep  the  night  pre- 
vious. You  tremble  as  the  chapel  bell  is 
rung ;  you  profess  to  be  very  indifferent  as 
the  reading  and  the  prayer  close ;  you  even 
stoop  to  take  up  your  hat,  as  if  you  had  en- 
tirely overlooked  the  fact  that  the  old 
president  was  in  the  desk  for  the  express 
purpose  of  declaring  the  successful  names. 
You  listen  dreamily  to  his  tremulous,  yet 
fearfully  distinct  enunciation.  Your  head 
swims  strangely. 

They  all  pass  out  with  a  harsh  murmur 
along  the  aisles  and  through  the  doorways. 
It  would  be  well  if  there  were  no  disappoint- 
ments in  life  more  terrible  than  this.  It  is 
consoling  to  express  very  deprecating  opin- 
ions of  the  faculty  in  general ;  and  very  con- 
temptuous ones  of  that  particular  officer  who 
decided  upon  the  merit  of  the  prize  themes. 
An  evening  or  two  at  Dalton's  room  go  still 


FIRST   AMBITION 


13; 


farther  toward  healing  the  disappointment ; 
and — if  it  must  be  said — toward  moderating 
the  heat  of  your  ambition. 

You  grow  up,  however,  unfortunately,  as 
the  college  years  fly  by,  into  a  very  exag- 
gerated sense  of  your  own  capacities.  Even 
the  good  old  white-headed  squire,  for  whom 
you  had  once  entertained  so  much  respect, 
seems  to  your  crazy  classic  fancy  a  very 
humdrum  sort  of  personage.  Frank,  al- 
though as  noble  a  fellow  as  ever  sat  on  a 
horse,  is  yet — you  can  not  help  thinking — 
very  ignorant  of  Euripides ;  even  the  Eng- 
lish master  at  Doctor  Bidlow's  school,  you 
feel  sure  would  balk  at  a  dozen  problems 
you  could  give  him. 

You  get  an  exalted  idea  of  that  uncertain 
quality,  which  turns  the  heads  of  a  vast 
many  of  your  fellows,  called — Genius.  An 
odd  notion  seems  to  be  inherent  in  the  at- 
mosphere of  those  college  chambers,  that 
there  is  a  certain  faculty  of  mind — first  de- 
veloped, as  would  seem,  in  colleges — 
which  accomplishes  whatever  it  chooses 
without  any  special  painstaking.  For  a  time 
you  fall  yourself  into  this  very  unfortunate 
hallucination ;  you  cultivate  it,  after  the 
usual  college  fashion,  by  drinking  a  vast 
deal  of  strong  coffee  and  whisky  toddy,  by 


138 


DREAM-LIFE 


writing  a  little  poor  verse  in  the  Byronic 
temper,  and  by  studying  very  late  at  night 
with  closed  blinds. 

It  costs  you,  however,  more  anxiety  and 
hypocrisy  than  you  could  possibly  have  be- 
lieved. 

You  will  learn,  Clarence,  when  the  au- 
tumn has  rounded  your  hopeful  summer, 
if  not  before,  that  there  is  no  genius  in  life, 
like  the  genius  of  energy  and  industry.  You 
will  learn  that  all  the  traditions  so  current 
among  very  young  men,  that  certain  great 
characters  have  wrought  their  greatness  by 
an  inspiration,  as  it  were,  grow  out  of  a 
sad  mistake. 

And  you  will  further  find,  when  you  come 
to  measure  yourself  with  men,  that  there 
are  no  rivals  so  formidable  as  those  earnest 
determined  minds  which  reckon  the  value 
of  every  hour,  and  which  achieve  eminence 
by  persistent  application. 

Literary  ambition  may  inflame  you  at  cer- 
tain periods ;  and  a  thought  of  some  great 
names  will  flash  like  a  spark  into  the  mine 
of  your  purposes ;  you  dream  till  midnight 
over  books ;  you  set  up  shadows,  and 
chase  them  down — other  shadows,  and  they 
fly.  Dreaming  will  never  catch  them.  Noth- 


501 

vVO 


FIRST   AMBITION 


139 


ing  makes  the  "scent  lie  well,"  in  the  hunt 
after  distinction,  but  labor. 

And  it  is  a  glorious  thing,  when  once  you 
are  weary  of  the  dissipation  and  the  ennui 
of  your  own  aimless  thought,  to  take  up 
some  glowing  page  of  an  earnest  thinker, 
and  read — deep,  and  long,  until  you  feel  the 
metal  of  his  thought  tinkling  on  your  brain, 
and  striking  out  from  your  flinty  lethargy, 
flashes  of  ideas  that  give  the  mind  light 
and  heat.  And  away  you  go  in  the  chase 
of  what  the  soul  within  is  creating  on  the 
instant,  and  you  wonder  at  the  fecundity  of 
what  seemed  so  barren,  and  at  the  ripeness 
of  what  seemed  so  crude.  The  glow  of  toil 
wakes  you  to  the  consciousness  of  your  real 
capacities :  you  feel  sure  that  they  have  taken 
a  new  step  toward  final  development.  In 
such  mood  it  is,  that  one  feels  grateful  to 
the  musty  tomes,  which  at  other  hours  stand 
like  curiosity-making  mummies  with  no 
warmth  and  no  vitality.  Now  they  grow 
into  the  affections  like  new-found  friends ; 
and  gain  a  hold  upon  the  heart,  and  light  a 
fire  in  the  brain,  that  the  years  and  the  mold 
can  not  cover  nor  quench. 


Ill 


COLLEGE   ROMANCE 

IN  FOLLOWING  the  mental  vagaries  of 
youth,  I  must  not  forget  the  curvetings  and 
wiltings  of  the  heart.  The  black-eyed  Jenny, 
with  whom  a  correspondence  at  red  heat 
was  kept  up  for  several  weeks,  is  long  be- 
fore this  entirely  out  of  your  regard ;  not 
so  much  by  reason  of  the  six-months'  dis- 
parity of  age,  as  from  the  fact  communi- 
cated quite  confidentially  by  the  traveled 
Nat,  that  she  has  had  a  desperate  flirtation 
with  a  handsome  midshipman.  The  conclu- 
sion is  natural,  that  she  is  an  inconstant 
cruel-hearted  creature,  with  little  apprecia- 
tion of  real  worth;  and  furthermore,  that 
all  midshipmen  are  a  very  contemptible — 
not  to  say  dangerous — set  of  men.  She  is 
consigned  to  forgetfulness  and  neglect ;  and 
the  late  lover  has  long  ago  consoled  him- 
self by  reading  in  a  spirited  way,  that  pas- 
sage of  Childe  Harold,  commencing: 
140 


COLLEGE    ROMANCE 


.     "I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world 
„ 

*T1Q     " 


me 


As  for  Madge,  the  memory  of  her  has 
been  more  wakeful,  but  less  violent.  To  say 
nothing1  of  occasional  returns  to  the  old 
homestead  when  you  have  met  her,  Nelly's 
letters  not  infrequently  drop  a  careless  half- 
sentence,  that  keeps  her  strangely  in  mind. 

"Madge,"  she  says,  "is  sitting  by  me  with 
her  work ;"  or,  "you  ought  to  see  the  little 
silk  purse  that  Madge  is  knitting;"  or, 
speaking  of  some  country  rout — "Madge 
was  there  in  the  sweetest  dress  you  can 
imagine."  All  this  will  keep  Madge  in 
mind ;  not,  it  is  true,  in  the  ambitious 
moods,  or  in  the  frolics  with  Dalton ;  but  in 
those  odd  half-hours  that  come  stealing  over 
one  at  twilight,  laden  with  sweet  memories 
of  the  days  of  old. 

A  new  romantic  admiration  is  started  by 
those  pale  lady-faces  which  light  up  on  a 
Sunday  the  gallery  of  the  college  chapel. 
An  amiable  and  modest  fancy  gives  to  them 
all  a  sweet  classic  grace.  The  very  atmos- 
phere of  those  courts,  wakened  with  high 
metaphysic  discourse,  seems  to  lend  them  a 
Greek  beauty  and  fineness;  and  you  attach 
to  the  prettiest  that  your  eye  can  reach,  all 


DREAM-LIFE 


the  charm  of  some  Sciote  maiden,  and  all 
the  learning  of  her  father — the  professor. 
And  as  you  lie  half-wakeful,  and  half- 
dreaming,  through  the  long  divisions  of  the 
doctor's  morning  discourse,  the  twinkling 
eyes  in  some  corner  of  the  gallery  bear  you 
pleasant  company,  as  you  float  down  those 
streaming  visions  which  radiate  from  you 
far  over  the  track  of  the  coming  life. 

But  following  very  closely  upon  this 
comes  a  whole  volume  of  street  romance. 
There  are  prettily  shaped  figures  that  go 
floating  at  convenient  hours  for  college  ob- 
servation along  the  thoroughfares  of  the 
town.  And  these  figures  come  to  be  known, 
and  the  dresses,  and  the  streets;  and  even 
the  door-plate  is  studied.  The  hours  are  as- 
certained, by  careful  observation  and  in- 
duction, at  which  some  particular  figure  is 
to  be  met ;  or  is  to  be  seen  at  some  low  par- 
lor window,  in  white  summer  dress,  with 
head  leaning  on  the  hand — very  melancholy, 
and  very  dangerous.  Perhaps  her  very  card 
is  stuck  proudly  into  a  corner  of  the  mirror 
in  the  college  chamber.  After  this  may  come 
moonlight  meetings  at  the  gate,  or  long  lis- 
tenings to  the  plaintive  lyrics  that  steal  out 
of  the  parlor  windows,  and  that  blur  woful- 
ly  the  text  of  the  Conic  Sections. 


m 


COLLEGE   ROMANCE 


Or,  perhaps,  she  is  under  the  fierce  eye 
of  some  Cerberus  of  a  schoolmistress,  about 
whose  grounds  you  prowl  piteously,  search- 
ing for  small  knot-holes  in  the  surrounding 
board-fence,  through  which  little  souvenirs 
of  impassioned  feeling  may  be  thrust.  Son- 
nets are  written  for  the  town  papers,  full  of 
telling  phrases,  and  with  classic  illusions, 
and  foot-notes,  which  draw  attention  to 
some  similar  felicity  of  expression  in  Hor- 
ace or  Ovid.  Correspondence  may  even  be 
ventured  on,  enclosing  locks  of  hair,  and  in- 
terchanging rings,  and  paper  oaths  of 
eternal  fidelity. 

But  the  old  Cerberus  is  very  wakeful ;  the 
letters  fail ;  the  lamp  that  used  to  glimmer 
for  a  sign  among  the  sycamores  is  gone 
out;  a  stolen  wave  of  a  handkerchief,  a 
despairing  look,  and  tears — which  you 
fancy,  but  do  not  see — make  you  miserable 
for  long  days. 

The  tyrant  teacher,  with  no  trace  of  com- 
passion in  her  withered  heart,  reports  you 
to  the  college  authorities.  There  is  a  long 
lecture  of  admonition  upon  the  folly  of  such 
dangerous  practises ;  and  if  the  offense  be 
aggravated  by  some  recent  joviality  with 
Dalton  and  the  senior,  you  are  condemned 
to  a.  month  of  exile  with  a  country  clergy- 


144 


DREAM-LIFE 


man.  There  are  a  few  tearful  regrets  over 
the  painful  tone  of  the  home  letters ;  but 
the  bracing  country  air,  and  the  pretty  faces 
of  the  village  girls,  heal  your  heart — with 
fresh  wounds. 

The  old  doctor  sees  dimly  through  his 
spectacles ;  and  his  pew  gives  a  good  look 
out  upon  the  smiling  choir  of  singers.  A 
collegian  wears  the  honors  of  a  stranger ; 
and  the  country  bucks  stand  but  poor  chance 
in  contrast  with  your  wonderful  attainments 
in  cravats  and  verses.  But  this  fresh  dream, 
odorous  with  its  memories  of  sleigh  rides 
or  lilac  blossoms,  slips  by,  and  yields  again 
to  the  more  ambitious  dreams  of  the  cloister. 

In  the  prouder  moments  that  come,  when 
you  are  more  a  man,  and  less  a  boy — with 
more  of  strategy  and  less  of  faith — your 
thought  of  a  woman  runs  loftily :  not  loftily 
in  the  realm  of  virtue  or  goodness,  but 
loftily  on  your  new  world-scale.  The  pride 
of  intellect  that  is  thirsting  in  you  fashions 
ideal  graces  after  a  classic  model.  The 
heroines  of  fable  are  admired :  and  the  soul 
is  tortured  with  that  intensity  of  passion 
which  gleams  through  the  broken  utterances 
of  Grecian  tragedy. 

In  the  vanity  of  self-consciousness  one 
feels  at  a  long  remove  above  the  ordinary 


COLLEGE   ROMANCE  1^ 

love  and  trustfulness  of  a  simple  and  pure 
heart.  You  turn  away  from  all  such  with  a 
sigh  of  conceit,  to  graze  on  that  lofty  but 
bitter  pasturage  where  no  daisies  grow.  Ad- 
miration may  be  called  up  by  some  grace- 
ful figure  that  you  see  moving  under  those 
sweeping  elms ;  and  you  follow  it  with  an 
intensity  of  look  that  makes  you  blush,  and 
straightway  hide  the  memory  of  the  blush 
by  summing  up  some  artful  sophistry,  that 
resolves  your  delighted  gaze  into  a  weak- 
ness, and  your  contempt  into  a  virtue. 

But  this  can  not  last.  As  the  years  drop 
off,  a  certain  pair  of  eyes  beam  one  day 
upon  you  that  seem  to  have  been  cut  out  of 
a  page  of  Greek  poetry.  They  have  all  the 
sentiment,  its  fire,  its  intellectual  reaches: 
it  would  be  hard  to  say  what  they  have  not. 
The  profile  is  a  Greek  profile  ;  and  the  heavy 
chestnut  hair  is  plaited  in  Greek  bands.  The 
figure,  too,  might  easily  be  that  of  Helen, 
or  of  Andromache. 

You  gaze — ashamed  to  gaze ;  and  your 
heart  yearns — ashamed  of  its  yearning.  It 
is  no  young  girl,  who  is  thus  testing  you: 
there  is  too  much  pride  for  that.  A  ripe- 
ness and  maturity  rest  upon  her  look  and 
figure  that  completely  fill  up  that  ideal 
which  exaggerated  fancies  have  wrought 


146 


DREAM-LIFE 


out  of  the  Grecian  heaven.  The  vision  steals 
upon  you  at  all  hours — now  rounding  its 
flowing  outline  to  the  mellifluous  meter  of 
epic  hexameter,  and  again  with  its  bound- 
ing life  pulsating  with  the  glorious  dashes 
of  tragic  verse. 

Yet,  with  the  exception  of  stolen  glances 
and  secret  admiration,  you  keep  aloof.  There 
is  no  wish  to  fathom  what  seems  a  happy 
mystery.  There  lies  a  content  in  secret 
obeisance.  Sometimes  it  shames  you,  as 
your  mind  glows  with  its  fancied  dignity; 
but  the  heart  thrusts  in  its  voice  ;  and,  yield- 
ing to  it,  you  dream  dreams,  like  fond  old 
Boccaccio's,  upon  the  olive-shaded  slopes  of 
Italy.  The  tongue  even  is  not  trusted  with 
the  thoughts  that  are  seething  within :  they 
begin  and  end  in  the  voiceless  pulsations  of 
your  nature. 

After  a  time — it  seems  a  long  time,  but  it 
is  in  truth  a  very  short  time — you  find  who 
she  is  who  is  thus  entrancing  you.  It  is 
done  most  carelessly.  No  creature  could 
imagine  that  you  felt  any  interest  in  the  ac- 
complished sister — of  your  friend  Dalton. 
Yet  it  is  even  she  who  has  thus  beguiled 
you ;  and  she  is  at  least  some  ten  years  Dai- 
ton's  senior ;  and  by  even  more  years — your 
own! 


COLLEGE   ROMANCE 

It  is  singular  enough,  but  it  is  true — that 
the  affections  of  that  transition  state  from 
youth  to  manliness  run  toward  the  types  of 
maturity.  The  mind,  in  its  reaches  toward 
strength  and  completeness,  creates  a  heart- 
sympathy — which  in  its  turn,  craves  fulness. 
There  is  a  vanity,  too,  about  the  first  steps 
of  manly  education,  which  is  disposed  to 
underrate  the  innocence  and  unripened 
judgment  of  the  other  sex.  Men  see  the 
mistake,  as  they  grow  older:  for  the  judg- 
ment of  a  woman,  in  all  matters  of  the  affec- 
tions, ripens  by  ten  years  faster  than  a 
man's. 

In  place  of  any  relentings  on  that  score 
you  are  set  on  fire  anew.  The  stories  of 
her  accomplishments,  and  of  her  grace  of 
conversation,  absolutely  drive  you  mad.  You 
watch  your  occasion  for  meeting  her  upon 
the  street.  You  wonder  if  she  has  any  con- 
ception of  your  capacity  for  mental  labor; 
and  if  she  has  any  adequate  idea  of  your 
admiration  for  Greek  poetry,  and  for  her- 
self. 

You  tie  your  cravat  poet-wise,  and  wear 
broad  collars  turned  down,  wondering  how 
such  disposition  may  affect  her.  Her  figure 
and  step  become  a  kind  of  moving  romance 
to  you,  drifting  forward  and  outward  into 


148 


DREAM-LIFE 


that  great  land  of  dreams  which  you  call 
the  world.  When  you  see  her  walking 
with  others,  you  pity  her,  and  feel  perfectly 
sure  that  if  she  had  only  a  hint  of  that  in- 
tellectual fervor  which  in  your  own  mind 
blazes  up  at  the  very  thought  of  her,  she 
would  perfectly  scorn  the  stout  gentleman 
who  spends  his  force  in  tawdry  compliments. 

A  visit  to  your  home  wakens  ardor,  by 
contrast,  as  much  as  by  absence.  Madge, 
so  gentle,  and  now  stealing  sly  looks  at 
you,  in  a  way  so  different  from  her  hoyden- 
ish  manner  of  school-days,  you  regard  com- 
placently, as  a  most  lovable,  fond  girl, — the 
very  one  for  some  fond  and  amiable  young 
man  whose  soul  is  not  filled,  as  yours  is, 
with  higher  things !  To  Nelly,  earnestly 
listening,  you  drop  only  exaggerated  hints 
of  the  wonderful  beauty  and  dignity  of  this 
new  being  of  your  fancy.  Of  her  age  you 
scrupulously  say  nothing. 

The  trivialities  of  Dalton  amaze  you ;  it 
is  hard  to  understand  how  a  man  within  the 
limit  of  such  influences  as  Miss  Dalton  must 
inevitably  exert,  can  tamely  sit  down  to  a 
rubber  of  whist,  and  cigars !  There  must  be 
a  sad  lack  of  congeniality ;  it  would  certainly 
be  a  proud  thing  to  supply  that  lack ! 

The  new  feeling,  wild  and  vague  as  it  is — 


COLLEGE   ROMANCE 


for  as  yet  you  have  only  most  casual  ac- 
quaintance with  Laura  Dalton — invests  the 
whole  habit  of  your  study;  not  quickening 
overmuch  the  relish  for  Dugald  Stewart,  or 
the  miserable  skeleton  of  college  logic ;  but 
spending  a  sweet  charm  upon  the  graces 
of  rhetoric,  and  the  music  of  classic  verse. 
It  blends  harmoniously  with  your  quickened 
ambition.  There  is  some  last  appearance 
that  you  have  to  make  upon  the  college 
stage,  in  the  presence  of  the  great  worthies 
of  the  state,  and  of  all  the  beauties  of  the 
town — Laura  chiefest  among  them.  In  view 
of  it,  you  feel  dismally  intellectual.  Prodi- 
gious faculties  are  to  be  brought  to  the  task. 
You  think  of  throwing  out  ideas  that  will 
quite  startle  his  excellency  the  governor, 
and  those  very  distinguished  public  charac- 
ters whom  the  college  purveyors  vote  into 
their  periodic  public  sittings.  You  are  quite 
sure  of  surprising  them,  and  of  deeply  pro- 
voking such  scheming  shallow  politicians, 
as  have  never  read  Wayland's  Treatise; 
and  who  venture  incautiously  within  hear- 
ing of  your  remarks.  You  fancy  yourself  in 
advance  the  victim  of  a  long  leader  in  the 
next  day's  paper:  and  the  thoughtful  but 
quiet  cause  of  a  great  change  in  the  political 
program  of  the  state.  But  crowning  and 


K 


I5O  DREAM-LIFE 

eclipsing  all  the  triumph,  are  those  dark 
eyes  beaming  on  you  from  some  corner  of 
the  church  their  floods  of  unconscious  praise 
and  tenderness. 

Your  father  and  Nelly  are  there  to  greet 
you.  He  has  spoken  a  few  calm,  quiet  words 
of  encouragement,  that  make  you  feel — very 
wrongfully — that  he  is  a  cold  man,  with  no 
earnestness  of  feeling.  As  for  Nelly,  she 
clasps  your  arm  with  a  fondness,  and  with  a 
pride,  that  tell  at  every  step  her  praises  and 
her  love. 

But  even  this,  true  and  healthful  as  it  is, 
fades  before  a  single  word  of  commenda- 
tion from  the  new  arbitress  of  your  feeling. 
You  have  seen  Miss  Dalton !  You  have  met 
her  on  that  last  evening  of  your  cloistered 
life,  in  all  the  elegance  of  ball  costume; 
your  eye  has  feasted  on  her  elegant  figure, 
and  upon  her  eye,  sparkling  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  beauty.  You  have  talked  with 
Miss  Dalton  about  Byron — about  Words- 
worth— about  Homer.  You  have  quoted 
poetry  to  Miss  Dalton;  you  have  clasped 
Miss  Dalton's  hand ! 

Her  conversation  delights  you  by  its 
piquancy  and  grace ;  she  is  quite  ready  to 
meet  you  (a  grave  matter  of  surprise!) 
upon  whatever  subject  you  may  suggest. 


COLLEGE   ROMANCE  15 

ytv^M 

You  lapse  easily  and  lovingly  into  the  cur-  ffUC 
rent  of  her  thought,  and  blush  to  find  your- 
self vacantly  admiring  when  she  is  looking 
for  reply.  The  regard  you  feel  for  her  re- 
solves itself  into  an  exquisite  mental  love, 
vastly  superior,  as  you  think,  to  any  other 
kind  of  love.  There  is  no  dream  of  mar- 
riage as  yet,  but  only  of  sitting  beside  her 
in  the  moonlight,  during  countless  succes- 
sion of  hours,  and  talking  of  poetry  and  na- 
ture— of  destiny  and  love. 

Magnificent  Miss  Dalton! 
'And  all  the  while,  vaunting  youth  is  al- 
most mindless  of  the  presence  of  that  fond 
Nelly,  whose  warm  sisterly  affection  meas- 
ures itself  hopefully  against  the  proud  as- 
sociations of  your  growing  years ;  and 
whose  deep  loving  eye,  half  suffused  with 
its  native  tenderness,  seems  longing  to  win 
you  back  to  the  old  joys  of  that  home-love, 
which  linger  on  the  distant  horizon  of  your 
boyhood  like  the  golden  glories  of  a  sink- 
ing day. 

As  the  night  wanes,  you  wander  for  a 
last  look  toward  the  dingy  walls  that  have 
made  for  you  so  long  a  home.  The  old 
broken  expectancies,  the  days  of  glee,  tri- 
umphs, the  rivalries,  the  defeats,  the  friend- 
ships, are  recalled  with  a  fluttering  of  the 


152 


DREAM-LIFE 


heart  that  pride  can  not  wholly  subdue.  You 
step  upon  the  chapel  porch  in  the  quiet  of 
the  night  as  you  would  step  on  the  graves 
of  friends.  You  pace  back  and  forth  in  the 
wan  moonlight,  dreaming  of  that  dim  life 
which  opens  wide  and  long  from  the  mor- 
row. The  width  and  length  oppress  you: 
they  crush  down  your  struggling  self-con- 
sciousness, like  Titans  dealing  with  Pyg- 
mies. A  single  piercing  thought  of  the  vast 
and  shadowy  future  which  is  so  near  tears 
off  on  the  instant  all  the  gew-gaws  of  pride 
— strips  away  the  vanity  that  doubles  your 
bigness,  and  forces  you  down  to  the  bare 
nakedness  of  what  you  truly  are! 

With  one  more  yearning  look  at  the  gray 
hulks  of  building,  you  loiter  away  under  the 
trees.  The  monster  elms,  which  have  bow- 
ered  your  proud  steps  through  four  years  of 
proudest  life,  lift  up  to  the  night  their 
rounded  canopy  of  leaves,  with  a  quiet 
majesty  that  mocks  you.  They  kiss  the  same 
calm  sky  which  they  wooed  four  years  ago ; 
and  they  droop  their  trailing  limbs  lovingly 
to  the  same  earth,  which  has  steadily  and 
quietly  wrought  in  them  their  stature  and 
their  strength.  Only  here  and  there  you 
catch  the  loitering  footfall  of  some  other  be- 
nighted dreamer,  strolling  around  the  vast 


COLLEGE    ROMANCE 

quadrangle  of  level  green,  which  lies,  like  a 
prairie-child,  under  the  edging  shadows  of 
the  town.  The  lights  glimmer  one  by 
one ;  and  one  by  one — like  breaking  hopes — 
they  fade  away  from  the  houses.  The  full- 
risen  moon,  that  dapples  the  ground  be- 
neath the  trees,  touches  the  tall  church 
spires  with  silver,  and  slants  their  loftiness 
— as  memory  slants  grief — in  long,  dark, 
tapering  lines,  upon  the  silvered  green. 


IV 


FIRST    LOOK   AT    THE    WORLD 

OUR  CLARENCE  is  now  fairly  afloat  upon 
the  swift  tide  of  youth.  The  thrall  of  teach- 
ers is  ended,  and  the  audacity  of  self-re- 
solve is  begun.  It  is  not  a  little  odd,  that 
when  we  have  least  strength  to  combat  the 
world,  we  have  the  highest  confidence  in 
our  ability. 

Very  few  individuals  in  the  world  possess 
that  happy  consciousness  of  their  own  prow- 
ess which  belongs  to  the  newly  graduated 
collegian.  He  has  most  abounding  faith  in 
the  tricksy  panoply  that  he  has  wrought  out 
of  the  metal  of  his  classics.  His  mathemat- 
ics, he  has  not  a  doubt,  will  solve  for  him 
every  complexity  of  life's  questions ;  and 
his  logic  will  as  certainly  untie  all  Gordian 
knots,  whether  in  politics  or  ethics. 

He  has  no  idea  of  defeat ;  he  proposes  to 
take  the  world  by  storm ;  he  half  wonders 
that  quiet  people  are  not  startled .  by  hi 
presence.     He  brushes  with  an  air  of  im 

154 


his 
im- 


FIRST  LOOK  AT  THE   WORLD 


portance  about  the  halls  of  country  hotels ; 
he  wears  his  honor  at  the  public  tables ;  he 
fancies  that  the  inattentive  guests  can  have 
little  idea  that  the  young  gentleman,  who 
so  recently  delighted  the  public  ear  with  his 
dissertation  on  the  "general  tendency  of 
opinion,"  is  actually  among  them  ;  and  quiet- 
ly eating  from  the  same  dish  of  beef,  and 
of  pudding ! 

Our  poor  Clarence  does  not  know — 
heaven  forbid  he  should ! — that  he  is  but 
little  wiser  now  than  when  he  turned  his 
back  upon  the  old  academy,  with  its  galli- 
pots and  broken  retorts ;  and  that  with  the 
addition  of  a  few  Greek  roots,  a  smattering 
of  Latin,  and  some  readiness  of  speech,  he  is 
almost  as  weak  for  breasting  the  strong  cur- 
rent of  life  as  when  a  boy.  America  is 
but  a  poor  place  for  the  romantic  book- 
dreamer.  The  demands  of  this  new  west- 
ern life  of  ours  are  practical  and  earnest. 
Prompt  action  and  ready  tact  are  the  weap- 
ons by  which  to  meet  it,  and  subdue  it. 
The  education  of  the  cloister  offers  at  best 
only  a  sound  starting  point,  from  which  to 
leap  into  the  tide. 

The  father  of  Clarence  is  a  cool  matter- 
of-fact  man. 

He  has  little  sympathy  with  any  of  the 


156 


DREAM-LIFE 


romantic  notions  that  enthrall  a  youth  of 
twenty.  He  has  a  very  humble  opinion — 
'  |  much  humbler  than  you  think  he  ought — of 
your  attainments  at  college.  He  advises  a 
short  period  of  travel,  that  by  observation 
you  may  find  out  more  how  that  world  is 
made  up  with  which  you  are  henceforth  to 
struggle. 

Your  mother  half  fears  your  alienation 
from  the  affections  of  home.  Her  letters 
all  run  over  with  a  tenderness  that  makes 
you  sigh,  and  that  makes  you  feel  a  deep  re- 
proach. You  may  not  have  been  wanting 
in  the  more  ordinary  tokens  of  affection ; 
you  have  made  your  periodic  visits ;  but  you 
blush  for  the  consciousness  that  fastens  on 
you  of  neglect  at  heart.  You  blush  for  the 
lack  of  that  glow  of  feeling  which  once  fas- 
tened to  every  home-object. 

[Does  a  man  indeed  outgrow  affections 
as  his  mind  ripens?  Do  the  early  and  ten- 
der sympathies  become  a  part  of  his  intel- 
lectual perceptions,  to  be  appreciated  and 
reasoned  upon,  as  one  reasons  about  truths 
of  science?  Is  their  vitality  necessarily 
young?  Is  there  the  same  ripe  joyous  burst 
of  the  heart  at  the  recollection  of  later 
friendships,  which  belong  to  those  of  boy- 
hood; and  are  not  the  later  ones  more  the 


1 


FIRST   LOOK   AT  THE   WORLD 

suggestions  of  judgment,  and  less  the  ab- 
solute conditions  of  the  heart's  health?] 

The  letters  of  your  mother,  as  I  said, 
make  you  sigh :  there  is  no  moment  in  our 
lives  when  we  feel  less  worthy  of  the  love 
of  others,  and  less  worthy  of  our  own  re- 
spect, than  when  we  receive  evidences  of 
kindness  which  we  know  we  do  not  merit ; 
and  when  souls  are  laid  bare  to  us,  and  we 
have  too  much  indifference  to  lay  bare  our 
own  in  return. 

"Clarence" — writes  that  neglected  mother 
—"you  do  not  know  how  much  you  are  in 
our  thoughts,  and  how  often  you  are  the 
burden  of  my  prayers.  Oh,  Clarence,  I 
could  almost  wish  that  you  were  still  a  boy 
— still  running  to  me  for  those  little  favors, 
which  I  was  only  too  happy  to  bestow — 
still  dependent  in  some  degree  on  your 
mother's  love  for  happiness. 

"Perhaps  I  do  you  wrong,  Clarence,  but 
it  does  seem  from  the  changing  tone  of  your 
letters  that  you  are  becoming  more  and  more 
forgetful  of  us  all ;  that  you  are  feeling  less 
need  of  our  advice,  and — what  I  feel  far 
more  deeply — less  need  of  our  affection.  Do 
not,  my  son,  forget  the  lessons  of  home. 
There  will  come  a  time,  I  feel  sure,  when 
you  will  know  that  those  lessons  are  good. 


'58 


DREAM-LIFE 


They  may  not  indeed  help  you  in  that  in- 
tellectual strife  which  soon  will  engross  you ; 
and  they  may  not  have  fitted  you  to  shine  in 
what  are  called  the  brilliant  circles  of  the 
world ;  but  they  are  such,  Clarence,  as  make 
the  heart  pure,  and  honest,  and  strong! 

"You  may  think  me  weak  to  write  you 
thus,  as  I  would  have  written  to  my  light- 
hearted  boy,  years  ago;  indeed  I  am  not 
strong,  but  growing  every  day  more  feeble. 

"Nelly,  your  sweet  sister,  is  sitting  by 
me :  'Tell  Clarence,'  she  says,  'to  come  home 
soon.'  You  know,  my  son,  what  hearty 
welcome  will  greet  you ;  and  that  whether 
here,  or  away,  our  love  and  prayers  will  be 
with  you  always ;  and  may  God  in  His  in- 
finite mercy  keep  you  from  all  harm !" 

A  tear  or  two — brushed  away,  as  soon  as 
they  come — is  all  that  youth  gives  to  em- 
balm such  treasure  of  love !  A  gay  laugh, 
or  the  challenge  of  some  companion  of  a 
day,  will  sweep  away  into  the  night  the  ear- 
nest, regretful,  yet  happy  dreams  that  rise 
like  incense  from  the  pages  of  such  hal- 
lowed affection. 

The  brusque  world,  too,  is  to  be  met,  with 
all  its  hurry  and  promptitude.  Manhood, 
in  our  swift  American  world,  is  measured 
too  much  by  forgetfulness  of  all  the  sweet 


FIRST   LOOK   AT  THE   WORLD 


bonds  which  tie  the  heart  to  the  home  of  its 
first  attachments.  We  deaden  the  glow  that 
nature  has  kindled,  lest  it  may  lighten  our 
hearts  into  an  enchanting  flame  of  weakness. 
We  have  not  learned  to  make  that  flame  the 
beacon  of  our  purposes,  and  the  warmer  of 
our  strength.  We  are  men  too  early. 

But  an  experience  is  approaching  Clar- 
ence, that  will  drive  his  heart  home  for  shel- 
ter, like  a  wounded  bird ! 

It  is  an  autumn  morning,  with  such  crim- 
son glories  to  kindle  it  as  lie  along  the  twin 
ranges  of  mountains  that  guard  the  Hudson. 
The  white  frosts  shine  like  changing  silk  in 
the  fields  of  late-growing  clover ;  the  river 
mists  curl  and  idle  along  the  bosom  of  the 
water,  and  creep  up  the  hillsides,  and  at 
noon,  float  their  feathery  vapors  aloft,  in 
clouds ;  the  crimson  trees  blaze  in  the  side 
valleys,  and  blend  their  vermilion  tints  un- 
der the  fairy  hands  of  our  American  frost- 
painters,  with  the  dark  blood  of  the  ash 
trees,  and  the  orange  tinted  oaks.  Blue  and 
bright,  under  the  clear  fall  heaven,  the  broad 
river  shines  before  the  surging  prow  of  the 
boat  like  a  shield  of  steel. 

The  bracing  air  lights  up  rich  dreams  of 
life.  Your  fancy  peoples  the  valleys  and  the 
hill-tops  with  its  creations ;  and  your  hope 


IOO  DREAM-LIFE 

lends  some  crowning  beauty  of  the  land- 
scape to  your  dreamy  future.  The  vision  of 
your  last  college  year  is  not  gone.  That 
figure,  whose  elegance  your  eyes  then 
feasted  on,  still  floats  before  you ;  and  the 
memory  of  the  last  talk  with  Laura  is  as 
vivid  as  if  it  were  only  yesterday  that  you 
listened.  Indeed,  this  opening  campaign  of 
travel — although  you  are  half  ashamed  to 
confess  it  to  yourself — is  guided  by  the 
thought  of  her. 

Dalton,  with  a  party  of  friends,  his  sister 
among  them,  is  journeying  to  the  north. 
A  hope  of  meeting  them — scarce  acknowl- 
edged as  an  intention — spurs  you  on.  The 
eye  rests  dreamily  and  vaguely  on  the 
beauties  that  appear  at  every  turn :  they  are 
beauties  that  charm  you,  and  charm  you  the 
more  by  an  indefinable  association  with  that 
fairy  object  that  floats  before  you,  half  un- 
known, and  wholly  unclaimed.  The  quiet 
towns,  with  their  noonday  stillness,  the  out- 
lying mansions  with  their  stately  splendor, 
the  bustling  cities  with  their  mocking  din, 
and  the  long  reaches  of  silent  and  wooded 
shore,  chime  with  their  several  beauties  to 
your  heart,  in  keeping  with  the  master-key, 
that  was  touched  long  weeks  before. 

The   cool  honest  advices  of  the   father 


FIRST    LOOK    AT   THE    WORLD 


161 


drift  across  your  memory  in  shadowy  forms 
as  you  wander  through  the  streets  of  the 
first  northern  cities ;  and  all  the  need  for  ob- 
servation, and  the  incentive  to  purpose, 
which  your  ambitious  designs  would  once 
have  quickened,  fade  dismally,  when  you 
find  that  she  is  not  there.  All  the  lax  gaiety 
of  Saratoga  palls  on  the  appetite ;  even  the 
magnificent  shores  of  Lake  George,  though 
stirring  your  spirit  to  an  insensible  wonder 
and  love,  do  not  cheat  you  into  a  trance  that 
lingers.  In  vain  the  sun  blazons  every  isle, 
and  lights  every  shaded  cove,  and  at  even- 
ing stretches  the  Black  Mountain  in  giant 
slumber  on  the  waters. 

Your  thought  bounds  away  from  the 
beauty  of  sky  and  lake,  and  fastens  upon  the 
ideal  which  your  dreamy  humors  cherish. 
The  very  glow  of  pursuit  heightens  your 
fervor:  a  fervor  that  dims  sadly  the  new- 
wakened  memories  of  home.  The  southern 
gates  of  Champlain,  those  fir-draped  Tros- 
sachs  of  America,  are  passed,  and  you  find 
yourself  upon  a  golden  evening  of  Canadian 
autumn,  in  the  quaint  old  city  of  Montreal. 

Dalton,  with  his  party,  has  gone  down  to 
Quebec.  He  is  to  return  within  a  few  days, 
on  his  way  to  Niagara.  There  is  a  letter 
from  Nelly  waiting  you.  It  says: — 


162 


DREAM-LIFE 


"Mother  is  much  more  feeble:  she  often 
speaks  of  your  return  in  a  way  that  I  am 
sure,  if  you  heard,  Clarence,  would  bring 
you  back  to  us  soon." 

There  is  a  struggle  in  your  mind :  old  af- 
fection is  weaker  than  young  pride  and  hope. 
Moreover,  the  world  is  to  be  faced :  the  new 
scenes  around  you  are  to  be  studied.  An 
answer  is  penned,  full  of  kind  remem- 
brances, and  begging  a  few  days  of  delay. 
You  wander,  wondering,  under  the  quaint 
old  houses,  and  wishing  for  the  return  of 
Dalton. 

He  meets  you  with  that  happy  careless 
way  of  his — the  dangerous  way  which  some 
men  are  born  to,  and  which  chimes  easily 
to  every  tone  of  the  world — a  way  you 
wondered  at  once;  a  way  you  admire  now, 
and  a  way  that  you  will  distrust,  as  you  come 
to  see  more  of  men.  Miss  Dalton — it  seems 
sacrilege  to  call  her  Laura — is  the  same 
elegant  being  that  entranced  you  first. 

They  urge  you  to  join  their  party.  But 
there  is  no  need  of  urgence :  those  eyes,  that 
figure,  the  whole  presence  indeed  of  Miss 
Dalton,  attract  you  with  a  power  which  you 
can  neither  explain,  nor  resist.  One  look 
of  grace  enslaves  you ;  and  there  is  a  strange 
pride  in  the  enslavement. 


FIRST   LOOK   AT   THE    WORLD 


I63 


Is  it  a  dream,  or  is  it  earnest — those 
moonlit  walks  upon  the  hills  that  skirt  the 
city,  when  you  watch  the  stars,  listening  to 
her  voice,  and  feel  the  pressure  of  that 
jeweled  hand  upon  your  arm? — when  you 
drain  your  memory  of  its  whole  stock  of 
poetic  beauties,  to  lavish  upon  her  ear?  Is 
it  love,  or  is  it  madness,  when  you  catch  her 
eye,  as  it  beams  more  of  eloquence  than  lies 
in  all  your  moonlight  poetry,  and  feel  an 
exultant  gush  of  the  heart,  that  makes  you 
proud  as  a  man,  and  yet  timid  as  a  boy,  be- 
side her? 

Has  Dalton,  with  that  calm,  placid,  non- 
chalant look  of  his,  any  inkling  of  the  rap- 
tures which  his  elegant  sister  is  exciting? 
Has  the  stout  elderly  gentleman,  who  is  so 
prodigal  of  his  bouquets  and  attentions,  any 
idea  of  the  formidable  rival  that  he  has 
found?  Has  Laura  herself — you  dream — 
any  conception  of  that  intensity  of  admira- 
tion with  which  you  worship? 

Poor  Clarence !  it  is  his  first  look  at  life ! 

The  Thousand  Isles  with  their  leafy 
beauties  lie  around  your  passing  boat,  like 
the  joys  that  skirt  us,  and  pass  us,  on  our 
way  through  life.  The  Thousand  Isles  rise 
sudden  before  you,  and  fringe  your  yeasty 
track,  and  drop  away  into  floating  specters 


i64 


DREAM-LIFE 


of  beauty — of  haze — of  distance,  like  those 
dreams  of  joy  that  your  passion  lends  the 
brain.  The  low  banks  of  Ontario  look  sul- 
len by  night ;  and  the  moon,  rising  tranquilly 
over  the  tops  of  vast  forests  that  stand  in 
majestic  ranks  over  ten  thousand  acres  of 
shore-land,  drips  its  silvery  sparkles  along 
the  rocking  waters,  and  flashes  across  your 
foamy  wake. 

With  such  attendance,  that  subdues  for 
the  time  the  dreamy  forays  of  your  passion, 
you  draw  toward  the  sound  of  Niagara ;  and 
its  distant  vague  roar,  coming  through 
great  aisles  of  gloomy  forest,  bears  up  your 
spirit,  like  a  child's,  into  the  Highest  Pres- 
ence. 

The  morning  after,  you  are  standing  with 
your  party  upon  the  steps  of  the  hotel.  A 
letter  is  handed  to  you.  Dalton  remarks  in 
a  quizzical  way  that  "it  shows  a  lady's 
hand." 

"Aha,  a  lady !"  says  Miss  Dalton — and  so 
gaily ! 

"A  sister,"  I  say ;  for  it  is  Nelly's  hand. 

"By  the  by,  Clarence,"  says  Dalton,  "it 
was  a  very  pretty  sister  you  gave  us  a 
glimpse  of  at  commencement." 

"Ah,  you  think  so,"  and  there  is  some- 
thing in  your  tone  that  shows  a  little  indig- 


FIRST   LOOK    AT   THE    WORLD 


•65' 


nation  at  this  careless  mention  of  your  fond 
Nelly — and  from  those  lips!  It  will  occur 
to  you  again. 

A  single  glance  at  the  letter  blanches  your 
cheek.  Your  heart  throbs — throbs  harder — 
throbs  tumultuously.  You  bite  your  lip ;  for 
there  are  lookers-on.  But  it  will  not  do. 
You  hurry  away ;  you  find  your  chamber ; 
you  close  and  lock  the  door,  and  burst  into 
a  flood  of  tears. 


A    BROKEN    HOME 

IT  is  Nelly's  own  fair  hand,  yet  sadly 
blotted ;  blotted  with  her  tears,  and  blotted 
with  yours. 

"It  is  all  over,  dear,  dear  Clarence !  Oh, 
how  I  wish  you  were  here  to  mourn  with  us ! 
I  can  hardly  now  believe  that  our  poor 
mother  is  indeed  dead." 

Dead !  It  is  a  terrible  word.  You  repeat 
it  with  a  fresh  burst  of  grief.  The  letter  is 
crumpled  in  your  hand.  Unfold  it  again, 
sobbing,  and  read  on. 

"For  a  week  she  has  been  failing  every 
day ;  but  on  Saturday  we  thought  her  very 
much  better.  I  told  her  I  felt  sure  she  would 
live  to  see  you  again. 

"  'I  shall  never  see  him  again,  Nelly,' 
said  she,  bursting  into  tears." 

Ah,  Clarence,  where  is  your  youthful 
pride,  and  your  strength  now — with  only 
that  frail  paper  to  annoy  you,  crushed  in 
your  grasp? 

166 


A  BROKEN    HOME 


I67 


"She  sent  for  father,  and  taking  his  hand 
in  hers,  told  him  she  was  dying.  I  am  glad 
you  did  not  see  his  grief.  I  was  kneeling 
beside  her,  and  she  put  her  hand  upon  my 
head  and  let  it  rest  there  for  a  moment,  while 
her  lips  moved  is  if  she  were  praying. 

"  'Kiss  me,  Nelly,'  she  said,  growing 
fainter :  'kiss  me  again  for  Clarence/ 

"A  little  while  after  she  died." 

For  a  long  time  you  remain  with  only  that 
letter  and  your  thought  for  company.  You 
pace  up  and  down  your  chamber :  again  you 
seat  yourself,  and  lean  your  head  upon  the 
table,  enfeebled  by  the  very  grief  that  you 
cherish  still.  The  whole  day  passes  thus ; 
you  excuse  yourself  from  all  companion- 
ship ;  you  have  not  the  heart  to  tell  the  story 
of  your  troubles  to  Dalton — least  of  all,  to 
Miss  Dalton.  How  is  this?  Is  sorrow  too 
selfish,  or  too  holy? 

Toward  nightfall  there  is  a  calmer  and 
stronger  feeling.  The  voice  of  the  present 
world  comes  to  your  ear  again.  But  you 
move  away  from  it  unobserved  to  that 
stronger  voice  of  God,  in  the  cataract. 
Great  masses  of  angry  cloud  hang  over  the 
west ;  but  beneath  them  the  red  harvest  sun 
shines  over  the  long  reach  of  the  Canadian 
shore,  and  bathes  the  whirling-  rapids  in 


i68 


DREAM-LIFE 


splendor.  You  stroll  alone  over  the  quaking 
bridge,  and  under  the  giant  trees  of  the 
island,  to  the  edge  of  the  British  Fall.  You 
go  out  to  the  little  shattered  tower,  and  gaze 
down  with  sensations  that  will  last  till 
death,  upon  the  deep  emerald  of  those  awful 
masses  of  water. 

It  is  not  the  place  for  a  bad  man  to  pon- 
der: it  is  not  the  atmosphere  for  foul 
thoughts,  or  weak  ones.  A  man  is  never 
better  than  when  he  has  the  humblest  sense 
of  himself:  he  is  never  so  unlike  the  spirit 
of  evil,  as  when  his  pride  is  utterly  vanished. 
You  linger,  looking  upon  the  stream  of  fad- 
ing sunlight  that  plays  across  the  rapids, 
and  down  into  the  shadow  of  the  depths 
below,  lit  up  with  their  clouds  of  spray :  yet 
farther  down,  your  sight  swims  upon  the 
black  eddying  masses  with  white  ribbons 
streaming  across  their  glassy  surface;  and 
your  dizzy  eye  fastens  upon  the  frail  cockle 
shells  —  their  stout  oarsmen  dwindled  to 
pygmies — that  dance  like  atoms  upon  the 
vast  chasm — or  like  your  own  weak  resolves 
upon  the  whirl  of  time. 

Your  thought,  growing  broad  in  the  view, 
seems  to  cover  the  whole  area  of  life ;  you 
set  up  your  affections  and  your  duties ;  you 
build  hopes  with  fairy  scenery,  and  away 


A   BROKEN    HOME 


169 


hey  all  go,  tossing  like  the  relentless  waters 
to  the  deep  gulf  that  gapes  a  hideous  wel- 
come !  You  sigh  at  your  weakness  of  heart, 
or  of  endeavor,  and  your  sighs  float  out  into 
the  breeze  that  rises  ever  from  the  shock  of 
the  waves,  and  whirl,  empty-handed,  to 
heaven.  You  avow  high  purposes,  and 
clench  them  with  round  utterance ;  and  your 
voice,  like  a  sparrow's,  is  caught  up  in  the 
roar  of  the  fall,  and  thrown  at  you  from  the 
cliffs,  and  dies  away  in  the  solemn  thunders 
of  nature.  Great  thoughts  of  life  come 
over  you — of  its  work  and  destiny — of  its 
affections  and  duties,  and  roll  down  swift — 
like  the  river — into  the  deep  whirl  of  doubt 
and  danger.  Other  thoughts,  grander  and 
stronger,  like  the  continuing  rush  of  waters, 
come  over  you,  and  knit  your  purposes  to- 
gether with  their  weight,  and  crush  you  to 
exultant  tears,  and  then  leap,  shattered  and 
broken,  from  the  very  edge  of  your  intent 
into  mists  of  fear. 

The  moon  comes  out,  and  gleaming 
through  the  clouds,  braids  its  light  fantastic 
bow  upon  the  waters.  You  feel  calmer  as 
the  night  deepens.  The  darkness  softens 
you ;  it  hangs — like  the  pall  that  shrouds 
your  mother's  corpse — low  and  heavily  to 
your  heart.  It  helps  your  inward  grief 


I7O  DREAM-LIFE 

with  some  outward  show.  It  makes  the 
earth  a  mourner;  it  makes  the  flashing 
water-drops  so  many  attendant  mourners. 
It  makes  the  Great  Fall  itself  a  mourner, 
and  its  roar — a  requiem. 

The  pleasure  of  travel  is  cut  short.  To 
one  person  of  the  little  company  of  fellow- 
voyagers,  you  bid  adieu  with  regret ;  pride, 
love  and  hope  point  toward  her,  while  all 
the  gentler  affections  stray  back  to  the 
broken  home.  Her  smile  of  parting  is  very 
gracious,  but  it  is  not,  after  all,  such  a  smile 
as  your  warm  heart  pines  for. 

Ten  days  after,  you  are  walking  toward 
the  old  homestead  with  such  feelings  as  it 
never  called  up  before.  In  the  days  of  boy- 
hood there  were  triumphant  thoughts  of  the 
gladness  and  the  pride  with  which,  when 
grown  to  the  stature  of  manhood,  you  would 
come  back  to  that  little  town  of  your  birth. 
As  you  have  bent  with  your  dreamy  resolu- 
tions over  the  tasks  of  the  cloister  life,  swift 
thoughts  have  flocked  on  you  of  the  proud 
step,  and  prouder  heart,  with  which  you 
would  one  day  greet  the  old  acquaintances 
of  boyhood ;  and  you  have  regaled  yourself 
on  the  jaunty  manner  with  which  you  would 
meet  old  Doctor  Bidlow ;  and  the  patroniz- 


A   BROKEN    HOME  17! 

ing  air  with  which  you  would  address  the 
pretty  blue-eyed  Madge. 

It  is  late  afternoon  when  you  come  in 
sight  of  the  tall  sycamores  that  shade  your 
home ;  you  shudder  now  lest  you  may  meet 
any  whom  you  once  knew.  The  first  keen 
grief  of  youth  seeks  little  of  the  sympathy 
of  companions ;  it  lies — with  a  sensitive  man 
— bounded  within  the  narrowest  circle  of 
the  heart.  They  only  who  hold  the  key  to 
its  innermost  recesses  can  speak  consolation. 
Years  will  make  a  change ;  as  the  summer 
grows  in  fierce  heats,  the  balminess  of  the 
violet  banks  of  spring  is  lost  in  the  odors 
of  a  thousand  flowers ;  the  heart,  as  it  gains 
in  age,  loses  freshness,  but  wins  breadth. 

Throw  a  pebble  into  the  brook  at  its 
source,  and  the  agitation  is  terrible,  and  the 
ripples  chafe  madly  at  their  narrowed  banks ; 
throw  in  a  pebble  when  the  brook  has  be- 
come a  river,  and  you  see  a  few  circles, 
widening,  and  widening,  and  widening,  until 
they  are  lost  in  the  gentle  every-day  mur- 
mur of  its  life ! 

You  draw  your  hat  over  your  eyes,  as 
you  walk  toward  the  familiar  door ;  the  yard 
is  silent;  the  night  is  falling  gloomily;  a 
few  katydids  are  crying  in  the  trees.  The 


172  DREAM -LIFE 

mother's  window  where,  at  such  a  season 
as  this,  it  was  her  custom  to  sit  watching 
your  play,  is  shut ;  and  the  blinds  are  closed 
over  it.  The  honeysuckle  which  grew  over 
the  window,  and  which  she  loved  so  much, 
has  flung  out  its  branches  carelessly;  and 
the  spiders  have  hung  their  foul  nests  upon 
its  tendrils. 

And  she,  who  made  that  home  so  dear 
to  your  boyhood,  so  real  to  your  after  years, 
— standing  amid  all  the  flights  of  your 
youthful  ambition,  and  your  paltry  cares 
(for  they  seem  paltry  now)  and  your 
doubts,  and  anxieties  and  weaknesses  of 
heart,  like  the  light  of  your  hope — burn- 
ing ever  there,  under  the  shadow  of  the 
sycamores — a  holy  beacon,  by  whose  guid- 
ance you  always  came  to  a  sweet  haven,  and 
to  a  refuge  from  all  your  toils, — is  gone — 
gone  forever! 

The  father  is  there  indeed;  beloved,  re- 
spected, esteemed ;  but  the  boyish  keart, 
whose  old  life  is  now  reviving,  leans  more 
readily,  and  more  kindly  into  that  void 
where  once  beat  the  heart  of  a  mother. 

Nelly  is  there;  cherished  now  with  all 
the  added  love  that  is  stricken  off  from  her 
who  has  left  you  forever.  Nelly  meets  you 
at  the  door. 


A   BROKEN    HOME 


173 


"Clarence!" 

"Nelly!" 

There  are  no  other  words;  but  you  feel 
her  tears  as  the  kiss  of  welcome  is  given. 
With  your  hand  joined  in  hers,  you  walk 
down  the  hall  into  the  old  familiar  room ; 
not  with  the  jaunty  college  step — not  with 
any  presumption  on  your  dawning  manhood 
— oh,  no — nothing  of  this ! 

Quietly,  meekly,  feeling  your  whole  heart 
shattered,  and  your  mind  feeble  as  a  boy's, 
and  your  purposes  nothing,  and  worse  than 
nothing — with  only  one  proud  feeling,  you 
fling  your  arm  around  the  form  of  that  gen- 
tle sister — the  pride  of  a  protector ;  the  feel- 
ing— "/  will  care  for  you  now,  dear  Nelly !" 
—that  is  all.  And  even  that,  proud  as  it  is, 
brings  weakness. 

You  sit  down  together  upon  the  lounge ; 
Nelly  buries  her  face  in  her  hands,  sobbing. 

"Dear  Nelly,"  and  your  arm  clasps  her 
more  fondly. 

There  is  a  cricket  in  the  corner  of  the 
room,  chirping  very  loudly.  It  seems  as  if 
nothing  else  were  living — only  Nelly,  Clar- 
ence and  the  noisy  cricket.  Your  eye  falls 
on  the  chair  where  she  used  to  sit;  it  is 
drawn  up  with  the  same  care  as  ever  be- 
side the  fire. 


' 


174  DREAM-LIFE 

"I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  Clarence,"  says 
Nelly,  recovering  herself;  and  there  is  a 
sweet  sad  smile  now.  And  sitting  there  be- 
side you  she  tells  you  of  it  all ;  of  the  day, 
and  of  the  hour ;  and  how  she  looked — and 
of  her  last  prayer,  and  how  happy  she  was. 

"And  did  she  leave  no  message  for  me, 
Nelly?" 

"Not  to  forget  us,  Clarence ;  but  you  could 
not?" 

"Thank  you,  Nelly;  and  was  there  noth- 
ing else?" 

"Yes,  Clarence ;  to  meet  her  one  day !" 

You  only  press  her  hand. 

Presently  your  father  comes  in ;  he  greets 
you  with  far  more  than  his  usual  cordiality. 
He  keeps  your  hand  a  long  time,  looking 
quietly  in  your  face,  as  if  he  were  reading 
traces  of  some  resemblance  that  had  never 
struck  him  before. 

The  father  is  one  of  those  calm  impassive 
men,  who  shows  little  upon  the  surface,  and 
whose  feelings  you  have  always  thought 
cold.  But  now  there  is  a  tremulousness  in 
his  tones  that  you  never  remember  observing 
before.  He  seems  conscious  of  it  himself, 
and  forbears  talking.  He  goes  to  his  old 
seat,  and  after  gazing  at  you  a  little  while 


A   BROKEN    HOME 

with  the  same  steadfastness  as  at  first,  leans 
forward,  and  buries  his  face  in  his  hands. 

From  that  very  moment  you  feel  a  sym- 
pathy and  a  love  for  him  that  you  have 
never  known  till  then.  And  in  after  years, 
when  suffering  or  trial  come  over  you,  and 
when  your  thoughts  fly,  as  to  a  refuge,  to 
that  shattered  home,  you  will  recall  that 
stooping  image  of  the  father — with  his  head 
bowed,  and  from  time  to  time  trembling 
convulsively  with  grief — and  feel  that  there 
remains  yet  by  the  household  fires  a  heart 
of  kindred  love,  and  of  kindred  sorrow. 

Nelly  steals  away  from  you  gently,  and 
stepping  across  the  room,  lays  her  hand 
upon  his  shoulder  with  a  touch  that  says,  as 
plainly  as  words  could  say  it:  "We  are 
here,  father!" 

And  he  rouses  himself — passes  his  arm 
around  her ;  looks  in  her  face  fondly — draws 
her  to  him,  and  prints  a  kiss  upon  her  fore- 
head. 

"Nelly,  we  must  love  each  other  now, 
more  than  ever." 

Nelly's  lips  tremble,  but  she  can  not  an- 
swer; a  tear  or  two  go  stealing  down  her 
cheek. 

You   approach   them;   and   your   father 


DREAM-LIFE 


takes  your  hand  again,  with  a  firm  grasp — 
looks  at  you  thoughtfully — drops  his  eyes 
upon  the  fire,  and  for  a  moment  there  is  a 
pause :  "We  are  quite  alone  now,  my  boy !" 
It  is  a  broken  home ! 


m 

h 
fe 


VI 

FAMILY   CONFIDENCE 

GRIEF  has  a  strange  power  in  opening  the 
hearts  of  those  who  sorrow  in  common. 
The  father,  who  has  seemed  to  you,  not  so 
much  neglectful,  as  careless  of  your  aims 
and  purposes — toward  whom  there  have 
been  in  your  younger  years  yearnings  of 
affection,  which  his  chilliness  of  manner  has 
seemed  to  repress — now  grows  under  the 
sad  light  of  the  broken  household  into  a 
friend.  The  heart  feels  a  joy  it  can  not  ex- 
press, in  its  freedom  to  love  and  to  cherish. 
There  is  a  pleasure  wholly  new  to  you  in 
telling  him  of  your  youthful  projects,  in 
listening  to  his  questionings,  in  seeking  his 
opinions,  and  in  yielding  to  his  judgment. 

It  is  a  sad  thing  for  the  child,  and  quite 
as  sad  for  the  parent,  when  this  confidence 
is  unknown.  Many  and  many  a  time,  with 
a  bursting  heart,  you  have  longed  to  tell  him 
of  some  boyish  grief,  or  to  ask  his  guidance 
out  of  some  boyish  trouble ;  but  at  the  first 
177 


ffrj  /J 
\\Jft 


178 


DREAM-LIFE 


W 

sight  of  that  calm  inflexible  face,  and  at 
the  first  sound  of  his  measured  words,  your 
enthusiastic  yearnings  toward  his  love  and 
his  counsels  have  all  turned  back  upon  your 
eager  and  sorrowing  heart,  and  you  have 
gone  away  to  hide  in  secret  the  tears  which 
the  lack  of  his  sympathy  has  wrung  from 
your  soul. 

But  now,  over  the  tomb  of  her  for  whom 
you  weep  in  common,  there  is  a  new  light 
breaking;  and  your  only  fear  is  lest  you 
weary  him  with  what  may  seem  a  barren 
show  of  your  confidence. 

Nelly,  too,  is  nearer  now  than  ever;  and 
with  her,  you  have  no  fears  of  your  ex- 
travagance ;  you  listen  delightfully  there, 
by  the  evening  flame,  to  all  that  she  tells  you 
of  the  neighbors  of  your  boyhood.  You 
shudder  somewhat  at  her  genial  praises  of 
the  blue-eyed  Madge — a  shudder  that  you 
can  hardly  account  for,  and  which  you  do 
not  seek  to  explain.  It  may  be  that  there  is 
a  clinging  and  tender  memory  yet — wak- 
ened by  the  home  atmosphere— of  the  di- 
vided sixpence. 

Of  your  quondam  friend,  Frank,  trie  pleas- 
ant recollection  of  whom  revives  again  un- 
der the  old  rooftree,  she  tells  you  very 
little ;  and  that  little  in  a  hesitating  and  in- 


AS, 


FAMILY  CONFIDENCE 


different  way  that  utterly  surprises  you. 
Can  it  be,  you  think,  that  there  has  been 
some  cause  of  unkindness  ? 

Clarence  is  still  very  young ! 

The  fire  glows  warmly  upon  the  accus- 
tomed hearthstone;  and — save  that  vacant 
place,  never  to  be  filled  again — a  home  cheer 
reigns  even  in  this  time  of  your  mourning. 
The  spirit  of  the  lost  parent  seems  to  linger 
over  the  remnant  of  the  household ;  and  the 
Bible  upon  its  stand — the  book  she  loved  so 
well — the  book  so  sadly  forgotten — seems 
still  to  open  on  you  its  promises,  in  her 
sweet  tones ;  and  to  call  you,  as  it  were,  with 
her  angel  voice,  to  the  land  that  she  inherits. 

And  when  late  night  has  come,  and  the 
household  is  quiet,  you  call  up  in  the  dark- 
ness of  your  chamber  that  other  night  of 
grief  which  followed  upon  the  death  of 
Charlie.  That  was  the  boy's  vision  of  death  ; 
and  this  is  the  youthful  vision.  Yet  essen- 
tially there  is  but  little  difference.  Death 
levels  the  capacities  of  the  living,  as  it  levels 
the  strength  of  its  victims.  It  is  as  grand 
to  the  man  as  to  the  boy :  its  teachings  are 
as  deep  for  age  as  for  infancy. 

You  may  learn  its  manner,  and  estimate 
its  approaches ;  but  when  it  comes,  it  comes 
always  with  the  same  awful  front  that  it 


180  DREAM-LIFE 

wore  to  your  boyhood.  Reason  and  revela- 
tion may  point  to  rich  issues  that  unfold 
from  its  very  darkness ;  yet  all  these  are  no 
more  to  your  bodily  sense,  and  no  more  to 
your  enlightened  hope,  than  those  fore- 
shadowings  of  peace  which  rest  like  a  halo 
on  the  spirit  of  the  child  as  he  prays  in 
guileless  tones — OUR  FATHER,  WHO  ART  IN 
HEAVEN. 

It  is  a  holy  and  placid  grief  that  comes 
over  you — not  crushing,  but  bringing  to  life 
from  the  grave  of  boyhood  all  its  better 
and  nobler  instincts.  In  their  light,  your 
wild  plans  of  youth  look  sadly  misshapen ; 
and  in  the  impulse  of  the  hour  you  abandon 
them ;  holy  resolutions  beam  again  upon 
your  soul  like  sunlight ;  your  purposes 
seemed  bathed  in  goodness.  There  is  an  ef- 
fervescence of  the  spirit  that  carries  away 
all  foul  matter,  and  leaves  you  in  a  state 
of  calm  that  seems  kindred  to  the  land  and 
to  the  life,  whither  the  sainted  mother  has 
gone. 

This  calm  brings  a  smile  in  the  middle  of 
tears  and  an  inward  looking  and  leaning 
toward  that  eternal  power  which  governs 
and  guides  us:  with  that  smile  and  that 
leaning,  sleep  comes  like  an  angelic  minis- 
ter and  fondles  your  wearied  frame  and 


FAMILY   CONFIDENCE 


i8ir 


thought  into  that  repose  which  is  the  mir- 
ror of  the  destroyer. 

Poor  Clarence,  he  is  like  the  rest  of  the 
world, — whose  goodness  lies  chiefly  in  the 
occasional  throbs  of  a  better  nature,  which 
soon  subside,  and  leave  them  upon  the  old 
level  of  desire. 

As  you  lie  between  waking  and  sleeping, 
you  have  a  fancy  of  a  sound  at  your  door ; 
it  seems  to  open  softly;  and  the  tall  figure 
of  your  father,  wrapped  in  his  dressing- 
gown,  stands  over  you  and  gazes — as  he 
gazed  at  you  before ;  his  look  is  very  mourn- 
ful ;  and  he  murmurs  your  mother's  name ; 
and — sighs ;  and — looks  again ;  and  passes 
out. 

At  morning  you  can  not  tell  if  it  was 
real  or  a  dream.  Those  higher  resolves,  too, 
which  grief  and  the  night  made,  seem  very 
vague  and  shadowy.  Life,  with  its  ambi- 
tious and  cankerous  desires,  wakes  again. 
You  do  not  feel  them  at  first;  the  subjuga- 
tion of  holy  thoughts,  and  of  reaches  toward 
the  Infinite,  leave  their  traces  on  you,  and 
perhaps  bewilder  you  into  a  half  conscious- 
ness of  strength.  But  at  the  first  touch  of 
the  grosser  elements  about  you — on  your 
very  first  entrance  upon  those  dutie*  which 
quicken  pride  or  shame,  and  which  are 


182 


DREAM-LIFE 


pointing  at  you  from  every  quarter — your 
holy  calm,  your  high-born  purpose,  your 
spiritual  cleavings  pass  away  like  the  elec- 
tricity of  August  storms,  drawn  down  by 
the  thousand  glittering  turrets  of  a  city. 

The  world  is  stronger  than  the  night ;  and 
the  bindings  of  sense  are  tenfold  stronger 
than  the  most  exquisite  delirium  of  soul. 
This  makes  you  feel,  or  will  one  day  make 
you  feel,  that  life — strong  life  and  sound 
life — that  life  which  lends  approaches  to  the 
Infinite,  and  takes  hold  on  Heaven,  is  not 
so  much  a  PROGRESS  as  it  is  a  RESISTANCE. 

There  is  one  special  confidence,  which  in 
all  your  talk  about  plans  and  purposes,  you 
do  not  give  to  your  father ;  you  reserve  that 
for  the  ear  of  Nelly  alone.  Why  happens 
it  that  a  father  is  almost  the  last  confidant 
that  a  son  makes  in  any  matter  deeply  af- 
fecting the  feelings?  Is  it  the  fear  that  a 
father  may  regard  such  matter  as  boyish? 
Is  it  a  lingering  suspicion  of  your  own  child- 
ishness ;  or  of  that  extreme  of  affection 
which  reduces  you  to  childishness? 

Why  is  it  always  that  a  man,  of  whatever 
age  or  condition,  forbears  to  exhibit  to  those 
whose  respect  for  his  judgment  and  mental 
abilities  he  seeks  only,  the  most  earnest 


FAMILY    CONFIDENCE 

qualities  of  the  heart  and  those  intenser 
susceptibilities  of  love  which  underlie  his 
nature,  and  which  give  a  color,  in  spite  of 
him,  to  the  habit  of  his  life?  Why  is  he  so 
morbidly  anxious  to  keep  out  of  sight  any 
extravagances  of  affection,  when  he  blurts 
officiously  to  the  world  his  extravagances 
of  action  and  of  thought?  Can  any  lover 
explain  me  this? 

Again,  why  is  a  sister  the  one  of  all 
others  to  whom  you  first  whisper  the  dawn- 
ings  of  any  strong  emotion ;  as  if  it  were 
a  weakness  that  her  charity  alone  could 
cover  ? 

However  this  may  be,  you  have  a  long 
story  for  Nelly's  ear.  It  is  some  days  after 
your  return :  you  are  strolling  down  a  quiet 
wooded  lane — a  remembered  place — when 
you  first  open  to  her  your  heart.  Your  talk 
is  of  Laura  Dalton.  You  describe  her  to 
Nelly,  with  the  extravagance  of  a  glowing 
hope.  You  picture  those  qualities  that  have 
attracted  you  most ;  you  dwell  upon  her 
beauty,  her  elegant  figure,  her  grace  of  con- 
versation, her  accomplishments.  You  make 
a  study  that  feeds  your  passion  as  you  go 
on.  You  rise  by  the  very  glow  of  your 
speech  into  a  frenzy  of  feeling  that  she  has 


1 


1 84 


DREAM-LIFE 


never  excited  before.  You  are  quite  sure 
that  you  would  be  wretched  and  miserable 
without  her. 

"Do  you  mean  to  marry  her  ?"  says  Nelly. 

It  is  a  question  that  gives  a  swift  bound 
to  the  blood  of  youth.  It  involves  the  idea 
of  possession,  and  of  the  dependence  of  the 
cherished  one  upon  your  own  arm  and 
strength.  But  the  admiration  you  entertain 
seems  almost  too  lofty  for  this  ;  Nelly's  ques- 
tion makes  you  diffident  of  reply ;  and  you 
lose  yourself  in  a  new  story  of  those  excel- 
lencies of  speech  and  of  figure  which  have 
so  charmed  you. 

Nelly's  eye,  on  a  sudden,  becomes  full  of 
tears. 

"What  is  it,  Nelly?" 

"Our  mother,  Clarence." 

The  word  and  the  thought  dampen  your 
ardor ;  the  sweet  watchfulness  and  gentle 
kindness  of  that  parent,  for  an  instant,  make 
a  sad  contrast  with  the  showy  qualities  you 
have  been  naming;  and  the  spirit  of  that 
mother — called  up  by  Nelly's  words — seems 
to  hang  over  you  with  an  anxious  love  that 
subdues  all  your  pride  of  passion. 

But  this  passes ;  and  now — half  believing 
that  Nelly's  thoughts  have  run  over  the 
same  ground  with  yours — you  turn  special 


FAMILY    CONFIDENCE 


pleader  for  your  fancy.  You  argue  for  the 
beauty  which  you  just  now  affirmed;  you 
do  your  utmost  to  win  over  Nelly  to  some 
burst  of  admiration.  Yet  there  she  sits  be- 
side you,  thoughtfully,  and  half  sadly,  play- 
ing with  the  frail  autumn  flowers  that  grow 
at  her  side.  What  can  she  be  thinking?  You 
ask  it  by  a  look. 

She  smiles  —  takes  your  hand,  for  she  will 
not  let  you  grow  angry  : 

"I  was  thinking,  Clarence,  whether  this 
Laura  Dalton  would,  after  all,  make  a  good 
wife  —  such  an  one  as  you  would  love  al- 
ways ?" 


VII 

A   GOOD  WIFE 

THE  THOUGHT  of  Nelly  suggests  new 
dreams  that  are  little  apt  to  find  place  in  the 
rhapsodies  of  a  youthful  lover.  The  very 
epithet  of  a  good  wife  mates  tamely  with 
the  romantic  fancies  of  a  first  passion.  It 
is  measuring  the  ideal  by  too  practical  a 
standard.  It  sweeps  away  all  the  delightful 
vagueness  of  a  fairy  dream  of  love,  and  re- 
duces one  to  a  dull  and  an  economic  esti- 
mate of  actual  qualities.  Passion  lives  above 
all  analysis  and  estimate,  and  arrives  at  its 
conclusions  by  intuition. 

Did  Petrarch  ever  think  if  Laura  would 
make  a  good  wife;  did  Oswald  ever  think 
it  of  Corinne  ?  Nay,  did  even  the  more  prac- 
tical Waverley  ever  think  it  of  the  impas- 
sioned Flora?  Would  it  not  weaken  faith 
in  their  romantic  passages,  if  you  believed 
it?  What  have  such  vulgar  practical  issues 
to  do  with  that  passion  which  sublimates  the 
faculties,  and  makes  the  loving  dreamer  to 
186 


A  GOOD  WIFE 


i87 


rl 


live  in  an  ideal  sphere  where  nothing  but 
goodness  and  brightness  can  come? 

Nelly  is  to  be  pitied  for  entertaining  such 
a  thought;  and  yet  Nelly  is  very  good  and 
kind.  Her  affections  are,  without  doubt,  all 
centered  in  the  remnant  of  the  shattered 
home ;  she  has  never  known  any  further  and 
deeper  love — never  once  fancied  it  even. 

Ah,  Clarence,  you  are  very  young ! 

And  yet  there  are  some  things  that  puzzle 
you  in  Nelly.  You  have  found,  accidentally, 
in  one  of  her  treasured  books — a  book  that 
lies  almost  always  on  her  dressing-table — a 
little  withered  flower  with  its  stem  in  a 
slip  of  paper ;  and  on  the  paper  the  initials 
of — your  old  friend  Frank.  You  recall,  in 
connection  with  this,  her  indisposition  to 
talk  of  him  on  the  first  evening  of  your  re- 
turn. It  seems — you  scarce  know  why — that 
these  are  the  tokens  of  something  very  like 
a  leaning  of  the  heart.  It  does  occur  to  you, 
that  she,  too,  may  have  her  little  casket  of 
loves ;  and  you  try  one  day  very  adroitly  to 
take  a  look  into  this  casket. 

You  will  learn,  later  in  life,  that  the  heart 
of  a  modest  gentle  girl  is  a  very  hard  mat- 
ter for  even  a  brother  to  probe ;  it  is  at  once 
the  most  tender  and  the  most  unapproach- 
able of  all  fastnesses.  It  admits  feeling  by 


188 


DREAM-LIFE 


armies,  with  great  trains  of  artillery — but 
not  a  single  scout.  It  is  as  calm  and  pure  as 
polar  snows ;  but  deep  underneath,  where  no 
footsteps  have  gone,  and  where  no  eye  can 
reach  but  One,  lies  the  warm  and  the  throb- 
bing earth. 

Make  what  you  will  of  the  slight  quiver- 
ing blushes,  and  of  the  half-broken  expres- 
sions— more  you  can  not  get.  The  love  that 
a  delicate-minded  girl  will  tell,  is  a  short- 
sighted and  outside  love ;  but  the  love  that 
she  cherishes,  without  voice  or  token,  is  a 
love  that  will  mold  her  secret  sympathies, 
and  her  deepest  fondest  yearnings,  either 
to  a  quiet  world  of  joy,  or  to  a  world  of 
placid  sufferance.  The  true  voice  of  her 
love  she  will  keep  back  long  and  late,  fear- 
ful ever  of  her  most  prized  jewel — fearful 
to  strange  sensitiveness ;  she  will  show  kind- 
ness, but  the  opening  of  the  real  flood-gates 
of  the  heart,  and  the  utterance  of  those  im- 
passioned yearnings  which  belong  to  its  na- 
ture, come  far  later.  And  fearful,  thrice 
fearful,  is  the  shock  if  these  flow  out  unmet ! 

That  deep  thrilling  voice,  bearing  all  the 
perfume  of  the  womanly  soul  in  its  flow, 
rarely  finds  utterance ;  and  if  uttered  vainly 
— if  called  out  by  tempting  devices,  and  by  a 
trust  that  is  abused — desolate  indeed  is  the 


A   GOOD   WIFE  189 

maiden  heart,  widowed  of  its  chastest 
thought.  The  soul  shrinks  affrighted  with- 
in itself.  Like  a  tired  bird,  lost  at  sea,  flut- 
tering around  what  seem  friendly  boughs, 
it  stoops  at  length,  and  finding  only  cold 
slippery  spars,  with  no  bloom  and  no  foliage 
— its  last  hope  gone — it  sinks  to  a  wild 
ocean  grave ! 

Nelly — and  the  thought  brings  a  tear  of 
sympathy  to  your  eye — must  have  such  a 
heart:  it  speaks  in  every  shadow  of  her  ac- 
tion. And  this  very  delicacy  seems  to  lend 
her  a  charm  that  would  make  her  a  wife  to 
be  loved  and  honored. 

Ay,  there  is  something  in  that  maidenly 
modesty — retiring  from  you,  as  you  ad- 
vance, retreating  timidly  from  all  bold  ap- 
proaches, fearful  and  yet  joyous — which 
wins  upon  the  iron  hardness  of  a  man's  na- 


ture like  a  rising  flame.  To  force  of  action 
and  resolve,  he  opposes  force :  to  strong  will, 
he  mates  his  own ;  pride  lights  pride ;  but  to 
the  gentleness  of  the  true  womanly  charac- 
ter he  yields  with  a  gush  of  tenderness  that 
nothing  else  can  call  out.  He  will  never  be 
subjugated  on  his  own  ground  of  action  and 
energy ;  but  let  him  be  lured  to  that  border 
country,  over  which  the  delicacy  and  fond- 
ness of  a  womanly  nature  presides,  and  his 

S, 


\\ 


190 


DREAM-LIFE 


energy  yields,  his  haughty  determination 
faints ;  he  is  proud  of  submission. 

And  with  this  thought  of  modesty  and 
gentleness  to  illuminate  your  dream  of  an 
ideal  wife,  you  chase  the  pleasant  phantom 
to  the  shadowy  home — lying  far  off  in  the 
future — of  which  she  is  the  glory,  and  the 
crown.  I  know  it  is  the  fashion  nowadays 
with  many  to  look  for  a  woman's  excel- 
lencies and  influence — away  from  her  home ; 
but  I  know,  too,  that  a  vast  many  eager  and 
hopeful  hearts  still  cherish  the  belief  that 
her  virtues  will  range  highest  and  live  long- 
est within  those  sacred  walls. 

Where,  indeed,  can  the  modest  and  ear- 
nest virtue  of  a  woman  tell  a  stronger  story 
of  its  worth  than  upon  the  dawning  habit  of 
a  child  ?  Where  can  her  grace  of  character 
win  a  higher  and  riper  effect  than  upon  the 
action  of  her  household  ?  What  mean  those 
noisy  declaimers  who  talk  of  the  feeble  in- 
fluence, and  of  the  crushed  faculties  of  a 
woman  ? 

What  school  of  learning,  or  of  moral  en- 
deavor, depends  more  on  its  teacher  than 
the  home  upon  the  mother  ?  What  influence 
of  all  the  world's  professors,  and  teachers, 
tells  so  strongly  on  the  habit  of  a  man's 
mind  as  those  gentle  droppings  from  a 


A   GOOD    WIFE 


iH 


mother's  lips,  which,  day  by  day,  and  hour 
by  hour,  grow  into  the  enlarging  stature  of 
his  soul,  and  live  with  it  forever?  They 
can  hardly  be  mothers  who  aim  at  a  broader 
and  noisier  field;  they  have  forgotten  to  be 
daughters :  they  must  needs  have  lost  the 
hope  of  being  wives. 

Be  this  how  it  may,  the  heart  of  a  man, 
with  whom  affection  is  not  a  name,  and  love 
a  mere  passion  of  the  hour,  yearns  toward 
the  quiet  of  a  home,  as  toward  the  goal  of 
his  earthly  joy  and  hope.  And  as  you  fas- 
ten there  your  thought,  an  indulgent  yet 
dreamy  fancy  paints  the  loved  image  that 
is  to  adorn  it,  and  to  make  it  sacred. 

She  is  there  to  bid  you  God  speed !  and 
an  adieu  that  hangs  like  music  on  your 
ear  as  you  go  out  to  the  every-day  labor 
of  life.  At  evening,  she  is  there  to  greet 
you  as  you  come  back  wearied  with  a  day's 
toil;  and  her  look,  so  full  of  gladness, 
cheats  you  of  your  fatigue;  and  she  steals 
her  arm  around  you  with  a  soul  of  wel- 
come that  beams  like  sunshine  on  her  brow 
and  that  fills  your  eye  with  tears  of  a  twin 
gratitude — to  her  and  Heaven. 

She  is  not  unmindful  of  those  old-fash- 
ioned virtues  of  cleanliness,  and  of  order, 
which  give  an  air  of  quiet,  and  which  secure 


DREAM-LIFE 


content.     Your  wants  are  all  anticipated  : 
the  fire  is  burning  brightly  ;  the  clean  hearth 


flashes  under  the  joyous  blaze ;  the  old  el- 

jn- 
worthiness  of  all  this  haunts  you  like  an 


bow  chair  is  in  its  place.     Your  very  un- 


accusing  spirit,  and  yet  penetrates  your 
heart  with  a  new  devotion  to  ward  the  loved 
one  who  is  thus  watchful  of  your  comfort. 

She  is  gentle ;  keeping  your  love,  as  she 
has  won  it,  by  a  thousand  nameless  and 
modest  virtues  which  radiate  from  her 
whole  life  and  action.  She  steals  upon  your 
affections  like  a  summer  wind  breathing 
softly  over  sleeping  valleys.  She  gains  a 
mastery  over  your  sterner  nature  by  very 
contrast,  and  wins  you  unwittingly  to  her 
lightest  wish.  And  yet  her  wishes  are 
guided  by  that  delicate  tact  which  avoids 
conflict  with  your  manly  pride ;  she  subdues 
by  seeming  to  yield.  By  a  single  soft  word 
of  appeal  she  robs  your  vexation  of  its 
anger;  and  with  a  slight  touch  of  that  fair 
hand,  and  one  pleading  look  of  that  earnest 
eye,  she  disarms  your  sternest  pride. 

She  is  kind;  shedding  her  kindness,  as 
heaven  sheds  dew.  Who  indeed  could  doubt 
it  ? — least  of  all,  you,  who  are  living  on  her 
kindness,  day  by  day,  as  flowers  live  on 
light?  There  is  none  of  that  officious 


A  GOOD  WIFE 


•93 


parade  which  blunts  the  point  of  benev- 
olence: but  it  tempers  every  action  with  a 
blessing.  If  trouble  has  come  upon  you, 
she  knows  that  her  voice,  beguiling  you  into 
cheerfulness,  will  lay  your  fears ;  and  as  she 
draws  her  chair  beside  you,  she  knows  that 
the  tender  and  confiding  way  with  which 
she  takes  your  hand,  and  looks  up  into  your 
earnest  face,  will  drive  away  from  your  an- 
noyance all  its  weight.  As  she  lingers,  lead- 
ing off  your  thought  with  pleasant  words, 
she  knows  well  that  she  is  redeeming  you 
from  care,  and  soothing  you  to  that  sweet 
calm  which  such  home  and  such  wife  can 
alone  bestow.  And  in  sickness — sickness 
that  you  almost  covet  for  the  sympathy  it 
brings — that  hand  of  hers,  resting  on  your 
fevered  forehead,  or  those  fingers  playing 
with  the  scattered  locks,  are  more  full  of 
kindness  than  the  loudest  vaunt  of  friends ; 
and  when  your  failing  strength  will  permit 
no  more,  you  grasp  that  cherished  hand, 
with  a  fulness  of  joy,  of  thankfulness,  and 
of  love,  which  your  tears  only  can  tell. 

She  is  good;  her  hopes  live  where  the 
angels  live.  Her  kindness  and  gentleness 
are  sweetly  tempered  with  that  meekness 
and  forbearance  which  are  born  of  faith. 
Trust  comes  into  her  heart  as  rivers  come 


94 


DREAM-LIFE 


to  the  sea.  And  in  the  dark  hours  of  doubt 
and  foreboding  you  rest  fondly  upon  her 
buoyant  faith  as  the  treasure  of  your  com- 
mon life;  and  in  your  holier  musings,  you 
look  to  that  frail  hand  and  that  gentle 
spirit  to  lead  you  away  from  the  vanities 
of  worldly  ambition  to  the  fulness  of  that 
joy  which  the  good  inherit. 
Is  Laura  Dalton  such  an  one? 


VIII 

A  BROKEN  HOPE 

YOUTHFUL  passion  is  a  giant.  It  over- 
leaps all  the  dreams,  and  all  the  resolves  of 
our  better  and  quieter  nature ;  and  drives 
madly  toward  some  wild  issue  that  lives 
only  in  its  frenzy.  How  little  account  does 
passion  take  of  goodness !  It  is  not  within 
the  cycle  of  its  revolution:  it  is  below;  it 
is  tamer ;  it  is  older ;  it  wears  no  wings. 

And  your  proud  heart,  flashing  back  to 
the  memory  of  that  sparkling  eye  which 
lighted  your  hope — full-fed  upon  the  van- 
ities of  cloister  learning— drives  your  so- 
berer visions  to  the  wind.  As  you  recall 
those  tones,  so  full  of  brilliancy  and  pride, 
the  quiet  virtues  fade  like  the  soft  breeze 
upon  a  spring  landscape,  driven  westward 
by  a  swift  sea-born  storm.  The  pulse 
bounds:  the  eyes  flash:  the  heart  trembles 
with  its  sharp  springs.  Hope  dilates,  like 
the  eye,  fed  with  swift  blood  leaping  to  the 
brain. 

195 


196 


DREAM-LIFE 


Again  the  image  of  Miss  Dalton,  so  fine, 
so  noble,  so  womanly,  fills  and  bounds  the 
future.  The  lingering  tears  of  grief  drop 
away  from  your  eye,  as  the  lingering  loves 
of  boyhood  drop  from  your  scalding  passion, 
or  drift  into  clouds  of  vapor. 

You  listen  to  the  calm  thoughtful  advice 
of  the  father  with  a  deep  consciousness  of 
something  stronger  than  his  counsels  seeth- 
ing in  your  bosom.  The  words  of  caution, 
of  instruction,  of  guidance,  fall  upon  your 
heated  imagination  like  the  night  dews  upon 
the  crater  of  an  Etna.  They  are  beneficent 
and  healthful  for  the  straggling  herbage 
upon  the  surface  of  the  mountain ;  but  they 
do  not  reach,  or  temper,  the  inner  fires  that 
are  rolling  their  billows  of  flame  beneath. 

You  drop  hints  from  time  to  time,  to  those 
with  whom  you  are  most  familiar,  of  some 
prospective  change  of  condition.  There  is 
a  new  and  cheerful  interest  in  the  building 
plans  of  your  neighbors — a  new  and  cheer- 
ful study  of  the  principles  of  domestic  archi- 
tecture; in  which  very  elegant  boudoirs, 
adorned  with  harps,  hold  prominent  place ; 
and  libraries  with  gilt-bound  books,  very 
rich  in  lyrical  and  dramatic  poetry ;  fine 
views  from  bay-windows ;  graceful  pots  of 
flowers ;  sleek  looking  Italian  greyhounds ; 


I 


A   BROKEN    HOPE 


cheerful  sunlight ;  musical  goldfinches  chat- 
tering on  the  wall ;  superb  pictures  of  prin- 
cesses in  peasant  dress ;  soft  Axminster 
carpets ;  easy-acting  bell-pulls ;  gigantic 
candelabras ;  porcelain  vases  of  classic 
shape ;  neat  waiters  in  white  aprons ;  lux- 
urious lounges  ;  and,  to  crown  them  all  with 
the  very  height  of  your  pride — the  elegant 
Laura,  the  mistress  and  the  guardian  of 
your  soul — moving  amid  the  scene,  like  a 
new  Duchess  of  Valliere ! 

You  catch  chance  sights,  here  and  there, 
of  the  blue-eyed  Madge;  you  see  her,  in 
her  mother's  household,  the  earnest  and  de- 
voted daughter — gliding  gracefully  about 
her  mother's  cottage,  the  very  type  of  gen- 
tleness, and  of  duty.  Yet  withal,  there  are 
sparks  of  spirit  in  her  that  pique  your  pride, 
lofty  as  it  is.  You  offer  flowers,  which 
she  accepts  with  a  kind  smile;  not  of  co- 
quetry— but  of  simplest  thankfulness.  She 
is  not  the  girl  to  gratify  your  vanity  with 
any  half-show  of  tenderness.  And  if  there 
lived  ever  in  her  heart  an  old  girlish  liking 
for  the  schoolboy  Clarence,  it  is  all  gone  be- 
fore the  romantic  lover  of  the  elegant 
Laura;  or,  at  most,  it  lies  in  some  obscure 
corner  of  her  soul,  never  to  be  brought  to 
light. 


198 


DREAM-LIFE 


Yon  enter  upon  the  new  pursuits,  which 
your  father  has  advised,  with  a  lofty  con- 
sciousness— not  only  of  the  strength  of  your 
mind,  but  of  your  heart.  You  relieve  your 
opening  professional  study  with  long  let- 
ters to  Miss  Dalton,  full  of  Shakespearean 
compliments,  and  touched  off  with  very 
dainty  elaboration.  And  you  receive  pleas- 
ant gossiping  notes  in  answer — full  of  quo- 
tations, but  meaning  very  little. 

Youth  is  in  a  grand  flush  like  the  hot 
days  of  ending  summer ;  and  pleasant 
dreams  thrall  your  spirit  like  the  smoky  at- 
mosphere that  bathes  the  landscape  of  an 
August  day.  Hope  rides  high  in  the  heav- 
ens, as  when  the  summer  sun  mounts  near- 
est to  the  zenith.  Youth  feels  the  fulness 
of  maturity  before  the  second  season  of  life 
is  ended :  yet  is  it  a  vain  maturity,  and  all 
the  glow  is  deceitful.  Those  fruits  that  ripen 
in  the  summer  do  not  last.  They  are  sweet ; 
they  are  glowing  with  gold ;  but  they  melt 
with  a  luscious  softness  upon  the  lip.  They 
do  not  give  that  strength  and  nutriment 
which  will  bear  a  man  bravely  through  the 
coming  chills  of  winter. 

The  last  scene  of  summer  changes  now  to 
the  cobwebbed  ceiling  of  an  attorney's  office. 
Books  of  law,  scattered  ingloriously  at  your 


A  BROKEN   HOPE 


elbow,  speak  dully  to  the  flush  of  your 
vanities.  You  are  seated  at  your  side  desk, 
where  you  have  wrought  at  those  heavy 
mechanic  labors  of  drafting  which  go  be- 
fore a  knowledge  of  your  craft. 

A  letter  is  by  you,  which  you  regard  with 
strange  feelings:  it  is  yet  unopened.  It 
comes  from  Laura.  It  is  in  reply  to  one 
which  has  cost  you  very  much  of  exquisite 
elaboration.  You  have  made  your  avowal  of 
feeling,  as  much  like  a  poem  as  your  educa- 
tion would  admit.  Indeed,  it  was  a  pretty 
letter — promising,  not  so  much  the  trustful 
love  of  an  earnest  and  devoted  heart,  as 
the  fervor  of  a  passion  which  consumed 
you,  and  glowed  like  a  furnace  through  the 
lines  of  your  letter.  It  was  a  confession  in 
which  your  vanity  of  intellect  had  taken 
very  entertaining  part ;  and  in  which  your 
judgment  was  too  cool  to  appear  at  all. 

She  must  needs  break  out  into  raptures 
at  such  a  letter ;  and  her  own  will  doubtless 
be  tempered  with  even  greater  passion. 

It  is  well  to  shift  your  chair  somewhat, 
so  that  the  clerks  of  the  office  may  not  see 
your  emotion  as  you  read.  It  would  be  silly 
to  manifest  your  exurberance  in  a  dismal 
dark  office  of  your  instructing  attorney.  One 
sighs  rather  for  woods,  and  brooks,  and  sun* 


200 


DREAM-LIFE 


shine,  in  whose  company  the  hopes  of  youth 
stretch  to  fulfilment. 

We  will  look  only  at  a  closing  passage: 

"My  friend  Clarence  will,  I  trust,  believe 
me  when  I  say  that  his  letter  was  a  surprise 
to  me.  To  say  that  it  was  very  grateful, 
would  be  what  my  womanly  vanity  could 
not  fail  to  claim.  I  only  wish  that  I  was 
equal  to  the  flattering  portrait  which  he 
has  drawn.  I  even  half  fancy  that  he  is 
joking  me,  and  can  hardly  believe  that  my 
matronly  air  should  have  quite  won  his 
youthful  heart.  At  least  I  shall  try  not  to 
believe  it ;  and  when  I  welcome  him  one  day, 
the  husband  of  some  fairy  who  is  worthy 
of  his  love,  we  will  smile  together  at  the 
old  lady,  who  once  played  the  Circe  to  his 
senses.  Seriously,  my  friend  Clarence,  I 
know  your  impulse  of  heart  has  carried  you 
away;  and  that  in  a  year's  time,  you  will 
smile  with  me  at  your  old  penchant  for  one 
so  much  your  senior,  and  so  ill-suited  to 
your  years,  as  your  true  friend, 

"LAURA/' 

Magnificent  Miss  Dalton! 
Read  it  again.     Stick  your  knife  in  the 
desk — tut ! — you  will  break  the  blade !  Fold 


A   BROKEN    HOPE 


201 


up  the  letter  carefully,  and  toss  it  upon  your 
pile  of  papers.  Open  Chitty  again ;  pleasant 
reading  is  Chitty!  Lean  upon  your  hands 
— your  two  hands — so  that  no  one  will  catch 
sight  of  your  face.  Chitty  is  very  interest- 
ing; how  sparkling  and  imaginative — what 
a  depth  and  flow  of  passion  in  Chitty ! 

The  office  is  a  capital  place — so  quiet  and 
sunny.  Law  is  a  delightful  study — so  cap- 
tivating, and  such  stores  of  romance!  And 
then  those  trips  to  the  hall  offer  such  relief 
and  variety ;  especially  just  now.  It  would 
be  well  not  to  betray  your  eagerness  to  go. 
You  can  brush  your  hat  a  round  or  two, 
and  take  a  peep  into  the  broken  bit  of  look- 
ing-glass over  the  wash-stand. 

You  lengthen  your  walk,  as  you  some- 
times do,  by  a  stroll  upon  the  Battery — 
though  rarely  upon  such  a  blustering  No- 
vember day.  You  put  your  hands  in  your 
pockets,  and  look  out  upon  the  tossing  sea. 

It  is  a  fine  sight — very  fine.  There  are 
few  finer  bays  in  the  world  than  New  York 
Bay ;  either  to  look  at,  or — for  that  matter — 
to  sleep  in.  The  ships  ride  up  thickly,  dash- 
ing about  the  cold  spray  delightfully;  the 
little  cutters  gleam  in  the  November  sun- 
shine like  white  flowers  shivering  in  the 
wind. 


\\u 


DREAM-LIFE 

The  sky  is  rich — all  mottled  with  cold 
gray  streaks  of  cloud.  The  old  apple- 
women,  with  their  noses  frost-bitten,  look 
cheerful  and  blue.  The  ragged  immigrants, 
in  short  trousers,  and  bell-crowned  hats, 
stalk  about  with  a  very  happy  expression, 
and  very  short-stemmed  pipes ;  their  yel- 
low-haired babies  look  comfortably  red,  and 
glowing.  And  the  trees  with  their  scant 
pinched  foliage  have  a  charming  summer- 
like  effect ! 

Amid  it  all,  the  thoughts  of  the  boudoir, 
and  harpsichord,  and  goldfinches,  and  Ax- 
minster  carpets,  and  sunshine,  and  Laura, 
are  so  very,  very  pleasant !  How  delighted 
you  would  be  to  see  her  married  to  the  stout 
man  in  the  red  cravat,  who  gave  her  bou- 
quets, and  strolled  with  her  on  the  deck  of 
the  steamer  upon  the  St.  Lawrence!  What 
a  jaunty  self-satisfied  air  he  wore ;  and  with 
what  considerate  forbearance  he  treated  you 
— calling  you  once  or  twice — Master  Clar- 
ence !  It  never  occurred  to  you  before,  how 
much  you  must  be  indebted  to  that  pleasant 
stout  man. 

You  try  sadly  to  be  cheerful:  you  smile 
oddly ;  your  pride  comes  strongly  to  your 
help,  but  yet  helps  you  very  little.  It  is  not 
so  much  a  broken  heart  that  you  have  to 


A  BROKEN    HOPE 


203 


R 


mourn  over,  as  a  broken  dream.  You  seem 
to  see  in  a  hundred  ways,  that  had  never 
occurred  to  you  before,  the  marks  of  her 
superior  age.  Above  all,  it  is  manifest  in 
the  cool  and  unimpassioned  tone  of  her  let- 
ter. Yet,  how  kindly,  withal !  It  would  be 
a  relief  to  be  angry. 

New  visions  come  to  you,  awakened  by 
the  broken  fancy  which  has  just  now  eluded 
your  grasp.  You  will  make  yourself,  if  not 
old,  at  least  gifted  with  the  force  and  dig- 
nity of  age.  You  will  be  a  man :  and  build 
no  more  castles,  until  you  can  people  them 
with  men.  In  an  excess  of  pride,  you  even 
take  umbrage  at  the  sex ;  they  can  have  lit- 
tle appreciation  of  that  engrossing  tender- 
ness, of  which  you  feel  yourself  to  be 
capable.  Love  shall  henceforth  be  dead,  and 
you  will  live  boldly  without  it. 

Just  so,  when  some  dark,  eastern,  cloud- 
bank  shrouds  for  a  morning  the  sun  of  later 
August,  we  say  in  our  shivering  pride — the 
winter  is  come  early!  But  God  manages 
the  seasons  better  than  we ;  and  in  a  day,  or 
an  hour  perhaps,  the  cloud  will  pass,  and 
the  heavens  glow  again  upon  our  ungrate- 
ful heads. 

Well,  it  is  even  so,  that  the  passionate 
dreams  of  youth  break  up  and  wither. 


204 


DREAM-LIFE 


Vanity  becomes  tempered  with  wholesome 
pride ;  and  passion  yields  to  the  riper  judg- 
ment of  manhood  ;  even  as  the  August  heats 
pass  on,  and  over,  into  the  genial  glow  of  a 
September  sun.  There  is  a  strong  growth 
in  the  struggles  against  mortified  pride  ;  and 
then  only  does  the  youth  get  an  ennobling 
consciousness  of  that  manhood  which  is 
dawning  in  him,  when  he  has  fairly  sur- 
mounted those  puny  vexations  which  a 
wounded  vanity  creates. 

Now  your  heart  is  driven  home ;  and  that 
cherished  place  where  so  little  while  ago  you 
wore  your  vanities  with  an  air  that  mocked 
even  your  grief,  and  that  subdued  your  bet- 
ter nature,  seems  to  stretch  toward  you, 
over  long  miles  of  distance,  its  wings  of 
love;  and  to  welcome  back  to  the  sister's 
and  the  father's  heart,  not  the  self-suffi- 
cient and  vaunting  youth,  but  the  brother 
and  son — the  schoolboy,  Clarence.  Like  a 
thirsty  child,  you  stray  in  thought  to  that 
fountain  of  cheer ;  and  live  again — your 
vanity  crushed,  your  wild  hope  broken — 
in  the  warm  and  natural  affections  of  the 
boyish  home. 

Clouds  weave  the  SUMMER  into  the  sea- 
son of  AUTUMN  ;  and  YOUTH  rises  from 
dashed  hopes  into  the  stature  of  a  MAN. 


AUTUMN 

OR 

DREAMS   OF 
MANHOOD 


DREAMS 
OF  MANHOOD 


AUTUMN 

THERE  are  those  who  shudder  at  the  ap- 
proach of  autumn,  and  who  feel  a  light 
grief  stealing  over  their  spirits,  like  an  Oc- 
tober haze,  as  the  evening  shadows  slant 
sooner,  and  longer,  over  the  face  of  an 
ending  August  day. 

But  is  not  autumn  the  manhood  of  the 
year?  Is  it  not  the  ripest  of  the  seasons? 
Do  not  proud  flowers  blossom :  the  golden- 
rod,  the  orchis,  the  dahlia,  and  the  bloody 
cardinal  of  the  swamp-lands  ? 

The  fruits,  too,  are  golden,  hanging  heavy 
from  the  tasked  trees.  The  fields  of  maize 
show  weeping  spindles,  and  broad  rustling 
leaves,  and  ears,  half  glowing  with  the 
crowded  corn ;  the  September  wind  whistles 
over  their  thick-set  ranks,  with  whispers  of 
plenty.  The  staggering  stalks  of  the  buck- 
wheat grow  red  with  ripeness,  and  tip  their 
tops  with  clustering  tricornered  kernels. 
207 


DREAM-LIFE 

The  cattle,  loosed  from  the  summer's 
yoke,  grow  strong  upon  the  meadows,  new 
starting  from  the  scythe.  The  lambs  of 
April,  rounded  into  fulness  of  limb,  and 
gaining  day  by  day  their  woolly  cloak,  bite 
at  the  nodding  clover-heads ;  or  with  their 
noses  to  the  ground,  they  stand  in  solemn 
circular  conclave  under  the  pasture  oaks, 
while  the  noon  sun  beats  with  the  lingering 
passion  of  July. 

The  Bob-o'-Lincolns  have  come  back 
from  their  southern  rambles  among  the  rice, 
all  speckled  with  gray ;  and — singing  no 
longer  as  they  did  in  the  spring — they  quiet- 
ly feed  upon  the  ripened  reeds  that  straggle 
along  the  borders  of  the  walls.  The  larks, 
with  their  black  and  yellow  breastplates, 
and  lifted  heads,  stand  tall  upon  the  close- 
mown  meadow ;  and  at  your  first  motion  of 
approach,  spring  up,  and  soar  away,  and 
light  again,  and  with  their  lifted  heads  re- 
new the  watch.  The  quails,  in  half-grown 
coveys,  saunter  hidden  through  the  under- 
brush that  skirts  the  wood,  and  only  when 
you  are  close  upon  them,  whir  away,  and 
drop  scattered  under  the  coverts  of  the 
forest. 

The  robins,  long  ago  deserting  the  garden 


AUTUMN 


209 


neighborhood,  feed  at  eventide  in  flocks 
upon  the  bloody  berries  of  the  sumac;  and 
the  soft-eyed  pigeons  dispute  possession  of 
the  feast.  The  squirrels  chatter  at  sunrise, 
and  gnaw  off  the  full-grown  burrs  of  the 
chestnuts.  The  lazy  blackbirds  skip  after 
the  loitering  cow,  watchful  of  the  crickets, 
that  her  slow  steps  start  to  danger.  The 
crows,  in  companies,  caw  aloft ;  and  hang 
high  over  the  carcass  of  some  slaughtered 
sheep,  lying  ragged  upon  the  hills. 

The  ash  trees  grow  crimson  in  color,  and 
lose  their  summer  life  in  great  gouts  of 
blood.  The  birches  touch  their  frail  spray 
with  yellow ;  the  chestnuts  drop  down  their 
leaves  in  brown  twirling  showers.  The 
beeches,  crimped  with  the  frost,  guard  their 
foliage  until  each  leaf  whistles  white  in 
the  November  gales.  The  bitter-sweet  hangs 
its  bare  and  leafless  tendrils  from  rock  to 
tree,  and  sways  with  the  weight  of  its 
brazen  berries.  The  sturdy  oaks,  unyield- 
ing to  the  winds  and  to  the  frosts,  struggle 
along  against  the  approaches  of  the  winter ; 
and  in  their  struggles,  wear  faces  of  orange, 
of  scarlet,  of  crimson,  and  of  brown ;  and 
finally,  yielding  to  swift  winds — as  youth's 
pride  yields  to  manly  duty — strew  the 


DREAM-LIFE 

ground  with  the  scattered  glories  of  their 
summer  strength,  and  warm,  and  feed  the 
earth  with  the  debris  of  their  leafy  honors. 

The  maple,  in  the  lowlands,  turns  sudden- 
ly its  silvery  greenness  into  orange  scarlet; 
and  in  the  coming  chillness  of  the  autumn 
eventide  seems  to  catch  the  glories  of  the 
sunset;  and  to  wear  them — as  a  sign  of 
God's  old  promise  in  Egypt — like  a  pillar 
of  cloud,  by  day — and  of  fire,  by  night. 

And  when  all  these  are  done — and  in  the 
paved  and  noisy  aisles  of  the  city,  the 
ailantus,  with  all  its  greenness  gone,  lifts 
up  its  skeleton  fingers  to  the  God  of  autumn 
and  of  storms — the  dogwood  still  guards  its 
crown;  and  the  branches  which  stretched 
their  white  canvas  in  April,  now  bear  up  a 
spire  of  bloody  tongues  that  lie  against  the 
leafless  woods  like  a  tree  of  fire. 

Autumn  brings  to  the  home  the  cheerful 
glow  of  "first  fires."  It  withdraws  the 
thoughts  from  the  wide  and  joyous  land- 
scape of  summer,  and  fixes  them  upon  those 
objects  which  bloom  and  rejoice  within  the 
household.  The  old  hearth,  that  has  rioted 
the  summer  through  with  boughs  and  blos- 
soms, gives  up  its  withered  tenantry.  The 
fire-dogs  gleam  kindly  upon  the  evening 
hours;  and  the  blaze  wakens  those  sweet 


AUTUMN 


pages  and  prayer  which  cluster  around  the 
fireside  of  home. 

The  wantoning  and  the  riot  of  the  season 
gone  are  softened  in  memory,  and  supply 
joys  to  the  season  to  come,  just  as  youth's 
audacity  and  pride  give  a  glow  to  the  rec- 
ollections of  our  manhood. 

At  midday,  the  air  is  mild  and  soft;  a 
warm  blue  smoke  lies  in  the  mountain  gaps ; 
the  tracery  of  distant  woods  upon  the  up- 
land hangs  in  the  haze  with  a  dreamy  gor- 
geousness  of  coloring.  The  river  runs  low 
with  August  drought;  and  frets  upon  the 
pebbly  bottom  with  a  soft  low  murmur — 
as  of  joyousness  gone  by.  The  hemlocks 
of  the  river  bank  rise  in  tapering  sheens, 
and  tell  tales  of  spring. 

As  the  sun  sinks,  doubling  his  disk  in  the 
October  smoke,  the  low  south  wind  creeps 
over  the  withered  tree  tops,  and  drips  the 
leaves  upon  the  land.  The  windows  that 
were  wide  open  at  noon,  are  closed ;  and  a 
bright  blaze — to  drive  off  the  eastern  damp- 
ness that  promises  a  storm — flashes  lightly, 
and  kindly,  over  the  book-shelves  and  busts 
upon  my  wall. 

As  the  sun  sinks  lower  and  lower,  his  red 
beams  die  in  a  sea  of  great  gray  clouds. 
Slowly,  and  quietly,  they  creep  up  over  the 


DREAM-LIFE 


night  sky.  Venus  is  shrouded.  The  western 
stars  blink  faintly — then  fade  in  the  mount- 
ing vapors.  The  vane  points  east  of  south. 
The  constellations  in  the  zenith  struggle  to 
be  seen,  but  presently  give  over  and  hide 
their  shining. 

By  late  lamplight  the  sky  is  all  gray  and 
dark.  The  vane  has  turned  two  points  nearer 
east.  The  clouds  spit  fine  rain-drops  that 
you  only  feel  with  your  face  turned  to  the 
heavens.  But  soon  they  grow  thicker  and 
heavier ;  and,  as  I  sit  watching  the  blaze, 
and — dreaming — they  patter  thick  and  fast 
under  the  driving  wind  upon  the  window — 
like  the  swift  tread  of  an  army  of  MEN. 


PRIDE  OF  MANLINESS 

AND  HAS  manhood  no  dreams  ?  Does  the 
soul  wither  at  that  Rubicon  which  lies  be- 
tween the  Gallic  country  of  youth  and  the 
Rome  of  manliness?  Does  not  fancy  still 
love  to  cheat  the  heart  and  weave  gorgeous 
tissues  to  hang  upon  that  horizon  which 
lies  along  the  years  that  are  to  come?  Is 
happiness  so  exhausted  that  no  new  forms 
of  it  lie  in  the  minds  of  imagination,  for 
busy  hopes  to  drag  up  to-day? 

Where,  then,  would  live  the  motives  to 
an  upward  looking  of  the  eye  and  of  the 
soul ;  where  the  beckonings  that  bid  us  ever 
onward ! 

But  these  later  dreams  are  not  the  dreams 
of  fond  boyhood,  whose  eye  sees  rarely  be- 
low the  surface  of  things ;  nor  yet  the  deli- 
cious hopes  of  sparkling-blooded  youth : 
they  are  dreams  of  sober  trustfulness,  of 
practical  results,  of  hard-wrought  world- 
success,  and — maybe — of  love  and  of  joy. 
213 


214 


DREAM-LIFE 


Ambitious  forays  do  not  rest  where  they 
rested  once;  hitherto,  the  balance  of  youth 
has  given  you,  in  all  that  you  have  dreamed 
of  accomplishment,  a  strong-  vantage 
against  age :  hitherto,  in  all  your  estimates, 
you  have  been  able  to  multiply  them  by  that 
access  of  thought  and  of  strength  which 
manhood  would  bring  to  you.  Now,  this  is 
forever  ended. 

There  is  a  great  meaning  in  that  word — 
manhood.  It  covers  all  human  growth.  It 
supposes  no  extensions  or  increase ;  it  is 
integral,  fixed,  perfect — the  whole.  There 
is  no  getting  beyond  manhood  ;  it  is  much  to 
live  up  to  it ;  but  once  reached,  you  are  all 
that  a  man  was  made  to  be  in  this  world. 

It  is  a  strong  thought — that  a  man  is 
perfected,  so  far  as  strength  goes ;  that  he 
will  never  be  abler  to  do  his  work,  than  un- 
der the  very  sun  which  is  now  shining  on 
him.  There  is  a  seriousness  that  few  call 
to  mind  in  the  reflection  that  whatever  you 
do  in  this  age  of  manhood  is  an  unalterable 
type  of  your  whole  bigness.  You  may 
qualify  particulars  of  your  character  by  re- 
finements, by  special  studies,  and  practise ; 
but — once  a  man — and  there  is  no  more 
manliness  to  be  lived  for. 

This  thought  kindles  your  soul  to  new  and 


PRIDE   OF   MANLINESS 


215 


swifter  dreams  of  ambition  that  belonged  to 
youth.  They  were  toys ;  these  are  weapons. 
They  were  fancies ;  these  are  motives.  The 
soul  begins  to  struggle  with  the  dust,  the 
sloth,  the  circumstance,  that  beleaguer  hu- 
manity, and  to  stagger  into  the  van  of  ac- 
tion. 

Perception,  whose  limits  lay  along  a  nar- 
row horizon,  now  tops  that  horizon,  and 
spreads,  and  reaches  toward  the  heaven  of 
the  Infinite.  The  mind  feels  its  birth,  and 
struggles  toward  the  great  birth-master. 
The  heart  glows :  its  humanities  even  yield 
and  crimple  under  the  fierce  heat  of  mental 
pride.  Vows  leap  upward,  and  pile  rampart 
upon  rampart  to  scale  all  the  degrees  of 
human  power. 

Are  there  not  times  in  every  man's  life 
when  there  flashes  on  him  a  feeling — nay, 
more,  an  absolute  conviction — that  this  soul 
is  but  a  spark  belonging  to  some  upper  fire ; 
and  that  by  as  much  as  we  draw  near  by 
effort,  by  resolve,  by  intensity  of  endeavor, 
to  that  upper  fire — by  so  much  we  draw 
nearer  to  our  home,  and  mate  ourselves  with 
angels?  Is  there  not  a  ringing  desire  in 
many  minds  to  seize  hold  of  what  floats 
above  us  in  the  universe  of  thought,  and 
drag  down  what  shreds  we  can,  to  scatter 


•&&zr\ 

*t 


JSkr 


2l6 


DREAM-LIFE 


to  the  world  ?  Is  it  not  belonging  to  great- 
ness to  catch  lightning  from  the  plains 
where  lightning  lives,  and  curb  it  for  the 
handling  of  men? 

Resolve  is  what  makes  a  man  manliest; 
not  puny  resolve,  not  crude  determination, 
not  errant  purpose — but  that  strong  and  in- 
defatigable will  which  treads  down  diffi- 
culties and  danger  as  a  boy  treads  down 
the  heaving  frost-lands  of  winter ;  which 
kindles  his  eye  and  brain  with  a  proud  pulse- 
beat  toward  the  unattainable.  Will  makes 
men  giants.  It  made  Napoleon  an  emperor 
of  kings,  Bacon  a  fathomer  of  nature,  By- 
ron a  tutor  of  passion,  and  the  martyrs 
masters  of  death. 

In  this  age  of  manhood,  you  look  back 
upon  the  dreams  of  the  years  that  are  past ; 
they  glide  to  the  vision  in  pompous  pro- 
cession ;  they  seem  bloated  with  infancy. 
They  are  without  sinew  or  bone.  They  do 
not  bear  the  hard  touches  of  the  man's  hand. 

It  is  not  long,  to  be  sure,  since  the  sum- 
mer of  life  ended  with  that  broken  hope ; 
but  the  few  years  that  lie  between  have 
given  long  steps  upward.  The  little  grief 
that  threw  its  shadow,  and  the  broken  vis- 
ion that  deluded  you,  have  made  the  passing 
years  long  in  such  feeling  as  ripens  man- 


PRIDE  OF   MANLINESS 


217 


hood.  Nothing  lays  the  brown  of  autumn 
upon  the  green  of  summer  so  quick  as 
storms. 

There  have  been  changes,  too,  in  the  home 
scenes ;  these  graft  age  upon  a  man.  Nelly 
— your  sweet  Nelly  of  childhood,  your  af- 
fectionate sister  of  youth,  has  grown  out 
of  the  old  brotherly  companionship  into  the 
new  dignity  of  a  household. 

The  fire  flames  and  flashes  upon  the  ac- 
customed hearth.  The  father's  chair  is  there 
in  the  wonted  corner ;  he  himself — we  must 
call  him  the  old  man  now,  though  his  head 
shows  few  white  honors — wears  a  calmness 
and  a  trust  that  light  the  failing  eye.  Nelly 
is  not  away ;  Nelly  is  a  wife ;  and  the  hus- 
band yonder,  as  you  may  have  dreamed — • 
your  old  friend  Frank. 

Her  eye  is  joyous ;  her  kindness  to  you  is 
unabated ;  her  care  for  you  is  quicker  and 
wiser.  But  yet  the  old  unity  of  the  house- 
hold seems  broken ;  nor  can  all  her  winning 
attentions  bring  back  the  feeling  which  lived 
in  spring  under  the  garret  roof. 

The  isolation,  the  unity,  the  integrity  of 
manhood,  make  a  strong  prop  for  the  mind ; 
but  a  weak  one  for  the  heart.  Dignity  can 
but  poorly  fill  up  that  chasm  of  the  soul 
which  the  home  affections  once  occupied. 


^-n 


ri, 


218 


DREAM-LIFE 


Life's  duties  and  honors  press  hard  upon 
the  bosom  that  once  throbbed  at  a  mother's 
tones,  and  bounded  under  a  mother's  smiles. 

In  such  home,  the  strength  you  boast  of 
seems  a  weakness;  manhood  leans  into 
childish  memories,  and  melts — as  autumn 
frosts  yield  to  a  soft  south  wind,  coming 
from  a  tropic  spring.  You  feel  in  a  desert 
where  you  once  felt  at  home — in  a  bounded 
landscape,  that  was  once  the  world. 

The  tall  sycamores  have  dwindled  to 
paltry  trees ;  the  hills  that  were  so  large, 
and  lay  at  such  grand  distance  to  the  eye  of 
childhood,  are  now  near  by,  and  have  fallen 
away  to  mere  rolling  waves  of  upland.  The 
garden  fence  that  was  so  gigantic,  is  now 
only  a  simple  paling ;  its  gate  that  was  such 
a  cumbrous  affair — reminding  you  of  Gaza 
— you  might  easily  lift  from  its  hinges.  The 
lofty  dovecote,  which  seemed  to  rise  like 
a  monument  of  art  before  your  boyish 
vision,  is  now  only  a  flimsy  box  upon  a  tall 
spar  of  hemlock. 

The  garret  even,  with  its  lofty  beams,  its 
dark  stains,  and  its  obscure  corners,  where 
the  white  hats  and  coats  hung  ghostlike,  is 
but  a  low  loft,  darkened  by  age — hung  over 
with  cobwebs,  dimly  lighted  with  foul  win- 


PRIDE  OF   MANLINESS 


219 


dows — its  romping  Charlie,  its  glee,  its 
swing,  its  joy,  its  mystery,  all  gone  forever. 

The  old  gallipots  and  retorts  are  not  any- 
where to  be  seen  in  the  second-story  window 
of  the  brick  school.  Doctor  Bidlow  is  no 
more !  The  trees  that  seemed  so  large,  the 
gymnastic  feats  that  were  so  extraordinary, 
the  boy  that  made  a  snapper  of  his  handker- 
chief, have  all  lost  their  greatness,  and  their 
dread.  Even  the  springy  usher,  who  dressed 
his  hair  with  the  ferule,  has  become  the 
middle-aged  father  of  five  curly-headed 
boys,  and  has  entered  upon  what  once 
seemed  the  gigantic  commerce  of  "station- 
ery and  account  books." 

The  marvelous  labyrinth  of  closets,  at 
the  old  mansion  where  you  once  paid  a  visit 
— in  a  coach — is  all  dissipated.  They  have 
turned  out  to  be  the  merest  cupboards  in  the 
wall.  Nat,  who  had  traveled,  and  seen  Lon- 
don, is  by  no  means  so  surprising  a  fellow 
to  your  manhood,  as  he  was  to  the  boy.  He 
has  grown  spare,  and  wears  spectacles.  He 
is  not  so  famous  as  he  was.  You  would 
hardly  think  of  consulting  him  now  about 
your  marriage ;  or  even  about  the  price  of 
goats  upon  London  Bridge. 

As  for  Jenny — your  first  fond  flame! — 


DREAM-LIFE 

lively,  romantic,  black-eyed  Jenny,  the 
reader  of  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,  who  sighed 
and  wore  blue  ribbons  on  her  bonnet,  who 
wrote  love-notes,  who  talked  so  tenderly  of 
broken  hearts,  who  used  a  glass  seal  with 
a  cupid  and  a  dart, — dear  Jenny,  she  is 
now  the  plump  and  thriving  wife  of  the 
apothecary  of  the  town.  She  sweeps  out 
every  morning  at  seven  the  little  entry  of 
the  apothecary's  house :  she  buys  a  "joint" 
twice  a  week  from  the  butcher,  and  is  par- 
ticular to  have  the  "knuckle"  thrown  in,  for 
soups :  she  wears  a  sky-blue  calico  gown, 
and  dresses  her  hair  in  three  little  flat  quirls 
on  either  side  of  her  head — each  one  pierced 
through  with  a  two-pronged  hair-pin. 

She  does  not  read  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw 
now. 


I 


II 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD 

FEW  PERSONS  live  through  the  first 
periods  of  manhood  without  strong  tempta- 
tions to  be  counted  "men  of  the  world." 
The  idea  looms  grandly  among  those 
vanities  that  hedge  a  man's  approach  to 
maturity. 

Clarence  is  in  good  training  for  the  ac- 
ceptance of  this  idea.  The  broken  hope, 
which  clouded  his  closing  youth,  shoots  over 
its  influence  upon  the  dawn  of  manhood. 
Mortified  pride  had  taught — as  it  always 
teaches — not  caution  only,  but  doubt,  dis- 
trust, indifference.  A  new  pride  grows  up 
on  the  ruins  of  the  old,  weak,  and  vain  pride 
of  youth.  Then,  it  was  a  pride  of  learning, 
or  of  affection ;  now,  it  is  a  pride  of  indif- 
ference. Then,  the  world  proved  bleak  and 
cold,  as  contrasted  with  his  shining  dreams ; 
and  now,  he  accepts  the  proof,  and  wins 
from  it  what  he  can. 

The  man  of  the  world  puts  on  the  method 
221 


222 


DREAM-LIFE 


V 


and  measure  of  the  world;  he  studies  its 
humors.  He  gives  up  the  boyish  notion  of 
a  sincerity  among  men,  like  that  of  youth: 
he  lives  to  seem.  He  conquers  such  annoy- 
ances as  the  world  may  thrust  upon  him 
in  the  shape  of  grief,  or  losses,  like  a  prac- 
tised athlete  of  the  ring.  He  studies  moral 
sparring. 

With  somewhat  of  this  strange  vanity 
growing  on  you,  you  do  not  suffer  the  heart 
to  wake  into  life,  except  in  such  fanciful 
dreams  as  tempt  you  back  to  the  sunny 
slopes  of  childhood. 

In  this  mood  you  fall  in  with  Dalton,  who 
has  just  returned  from  a  year  passed  in  the 
French  capital.  There  is  an  easy  suavity 
and  a  graceful  indifference  in  his  manner 
that  chime  admirably  with  your  humor.  He 
is  gracious,  without  needing  to  be  kind.  He 
is  a  friend,  without  any  challenge  or  proffer 
of  sincerity.  He  is  an  adept  in  those  world 
tactics  which  match  him  with  all  men,  but 
which  link  him  to  none.  He  has  made  it 
his  art  to  be  desired,  and  admired,  but  rare- 
ly to  be  trusted.  You  could  not  have  a 
better  teacher. 

Under  such  instruction  you  become  dis- 
gusted for  the  time  with  any  effort,  or  pulse 
of  affection,  which  does  not  have  immediate 


MAN   OF  THE   WORLD 


223 


and  practical  bearing  upon  that  success  in 
life  by  which  you  measure  your  hopes.  The 
dreams  of  love,  of  romantic  adventure,  of 
placid  joy,  have  all  gone  out  with  the  fan- 
tastic images  to  which  your  passionate 
youth  had  joined  them.  The  world  is  now 
regarded  as  a  tournament,  where  the  gladia- 
torship  of  life  is  to  be  exhibited  as  your 
best  endeavor.  Its  honors  and  joy  lie  in  a 
brilliant  pennon,  and  a  plaudit. 

Dalton  is  learned  in  those  arts  which 
make  of  action,  not  a  duty,  but  a  conquest ; 
and  sense  of  duty  has  expired  in  you  with 
those  romantic  hopes  to  which  you  bound 
it,  not  so  much  through  sympathy  as  ig- 
norance. It  is  a  cold  and  a  bitterly  selfish 
work  that  lies  before  you — to  be  covered 
over  with  such  borrowed  show  of  smiles  as 
men  call  affability.  The  heart  wears  a 
stout  brazen  screen ;  its  inclinations  grow 
to  the  habit  of  your  ambitious  projects. 

In  such  mood  come  swift  dreams  of 
wealth — not  of  mere  accumulation,  but  of 
the  splendor  and  parade  which  in  our  west- 
ern world  are,  alas,  its  chiefest  attractions. 
You  grow  observant  of  markets,  and  esti- 
mate percentages.  You  fondle  some  specu- 
lation in  your  thought  until  it  grows  into 
a  gigantic  scheme  of  profit ;  and  if  the  ven- 


224 


DREAM-LIFE 


ture  prove  successful,  you  follow  the  tide 
tremulously  until  some  sudden  reverse 
throws  you  back  upon  the  resources  of  your 
professional  employ. 

But  again  as  you  see  this  and  that  one 
wearing  the  blazonry  which  wealth  wins 
and  which  the  man  of  the  world  is  sure  to 
covet — your  weak  soul  glows  again  with 
the  impassioned  desire ;  and  you  hunger, 
with  brute  appetite  and  bestial  eye,  for 
riches.  You  see  the  mania  around  you  ;  and 
it  is  relieved  of  odium  by  the  community 
of  error.  You  consult  some  gray  old  vet- 
eran in  the  war  of  gold,  scarred  with 
wounds,  and  crowned  with  honors ;  and 
watch  eagerly  for  the  words  and  the  ways 
which  have  won  him  wealth. 

Your  fingers  tingle  with  mad  expec- 
tancies ;  your  eyes  roam,  lost  in  estimates. 
Your  note-book  shows  long  lines  of  figures. 
Your  reading  of  the  news  centers  in  the 
stock  list.  Your  brow  grows  cramped  with 
the  fever  of  anxiety.  Through  whole  church 
hours,  your  dreams  range  over  the  shadowy 
transactions  of  the  week  or  the  month  to 
come. 

Even  with  old  religious  habit  clinging  fast 
to  your  soul,  you  dream  now  only  of  nice 
conformity,  comfortable  faith,  high  respec- 


MAN    OF  THE    WORLD 


225 


lability ;  there  lies  very  little  in  you  of  that 
noble  consciousness  of  duty  performed — of 
living  up  to  the  life  that  is  in  you — of  grasp- 
ing boldly,  and  stoutly,  at  those  chains  of 
love  which  the  Infinite  Power  has  lowered 
to  our  reach.  You  do  not  dream  of  being, 
but  of  seeming.  You  spill  the  real  essence, 
and  clutch  at  the  vial  which  has  only  a  label 
of  truth.  Great  and  holy  thoughts  of  the 
future — shadowy,  yet  bold  conceptions  of. 
the  Infinite — float  past  you  dimly,  and  your 
hold  is  never  strong  enough  to  grapple  them 
to  you.  They  fly,  like  eagles,  too  near  the 
sun ;  and  there  lies  game  below  for  your 
vulture  beak  to  feed  upon. 

Great  thoughts  belong,  only  and  truly, 
to  him  whose  mind  can  hold  them.  No  mat- 
ter who  first  puts  them  in  words,  if  they 
come  to  a  soul,  and  fill  it,  they  belong  to  it, 
— whether  they  floated  on  the  voice  of 
others,  or  on  the  wings  of  silence  and  the 
night. 

To  be  up  with  the  fashion  of  the  time, 
to  be  ignorant  of  plain  things  and  people, 
and  to  be  knowing  in  brilliancies,  is  a  kind 
of  Pelhamism  that  is  very  apt  to  overtake 
one  in  the  first  blush  of  manhood.  To  hold 
a  fair  place  in  the  after-dinner  table-talk,  to 
meet  distinction  as  a  familiarity,  to  wear 


DREAM-LIFE 


salon  honors  with  aplomb,  to  know  affec- 
tion so  far  as  to  wield  it  into  grace  of  lan- 
guage, are  all  splendid  achievements  with  a 
man  of  the  world.  Instruction  is  caught 
without  asking  it ;  and  no  ignorance  so 
shames,  as  ignorance  of  those  forms  by 
which  natural  impulse  is  subdued  to  the 
tone  of  civilian  habit.  You  conceal  what 
tells  of  the  man;  and  cover  it  with  what 
smacks  of  the  roue. 

Perhaps,  under  such  training,  and  with  a 
slight  memory  of  early  mortification  to  point 
your  spirit,  you  affect  those  gallantries  of 
heart  and  action  which  the  world  calls 
flirtation.  You  may  study  brilliancies  of 
speech  to  wrap  their  net  around  those  sus- 
ceptible hearts  whose  habit  in  too  naive  by 
nature  to  wear  the  leaden  covering  of  cus- 
tom. You  win  approaches  by  artful  coun- 
terfeit of  earnestness;  and  dash  away  any 
naivette  of  confidence,  with  some  brave 
sophism  of  the  world.  A  doubt  or  a  distrust 
piques  your  pride  and  makes  attentions  wear 
a  humility  that  wins  anew.  An  indiffer- 
ence piques  you  more,  and  throws  into  your 
art  a  counter  indifference — lit  up  by  bold 
flashes  of  feeling — sparkling  with  careless 
brilliancies,  and  crowned  with  a  triumph  of 
neglect. 


-S 


y 


MAN   OF  THE   WORLD 


227 


It  is  curious  how  ingeniously  a  man's 
vanity  will  frame  apologies  for  such  action. 
It  is  pleasant  to  give  pleasure;  you  like  to 
see  a  joyous  sparkle  of  the  eye,  whether  lit 
up  by  your  presence,  or  by  some  buoyant 
fancy.  ^  It  is  a  beguiling  task  to  weave 
words  into  some  soft  melodious  flow  that 
shall  keep  the  ear,  and  kindle  the  eye;  and 
to  strew  it  over  with  half-hidden  praises, 
so  deftly  couched  in  double  terms  that  their 
aroma  shall  only  come  to  the  heart  hours 
afterward,  and  seem  to  be  the  merest  acci- 
dents of  truth.  It  is  a  happy  art  to  make 
such  subdued  show  of  emotion  as  seems  to 
struggle  with  pride ;  and  to  flush  the  eye 
with  a  moisture,  of  which  you  seemed 
ashamed  and  yet  are  proud.  It  is  a  pretty 
practise  to  throw  an  earnestness  into  look 
and  gesture  that  shall  seem  full  of  plead- 
ing, and  yet — ask  nothing. 

And  yet  it  is  hard  to  admire  greatly  the 
reputation  of  that  man  who  builds  his  tri- 
umphs upon  womanly  weakness ;  that  dis- 
tinction is  not  over-enduring  whose  chiefest 
merit  springs  out  of  the  delusions  of  a  too 
trustful  heart.  The  man  who  wins  it  wins 
only  a  poor  sort  of  womanly  distinction. 
Without  power  to  cope  with  men,  he  tri- 
umphs over  the  weakness  of  the  other  sex 


228 


DREAM-LIFE 


only  by  hypocrisy.  He  wears  none  of  the 
armor  of  Romans ;  and  he  parleys  with 
Punic  faith. 

Yet,  even  now — there  is  a  lurking  good- 
ness in  you  that  traces  its  beginnings  to  the 
old  garret  home ;  there  is  an  air  in  the  har- 
vest heats,  that  whispers  of  the  bloom  of 
spring. 

And  over  your  brilliant  career  as  a  man  of 
the  world,  however  lit  up  by  a  morbid 
vanity,  or  galvanized  by  a  lascivious  passion, 
there  will  come  at  times  the  consciousness 
of  a  better  heart  struggling  beneath  your 
cankered  action,  like  the  low  Vesuvian  fire, 
reeking  vainly  under  rough  beds  of  tufa 
and  scoriated  lava.  And  as  you  smile  in 
loge  or  salon  with  daring  smiles,  or  press 
with  villain  fondness  the  hand  of  those  lady 
votaries  of  the  same  god  you  serve,  there 
will  gleam  upon  you,  over  the  waste  of  roll- 
ing years,  a  memory  that  quickens  again 
the  nobler  and  bolder  instincts  of  the  heart. 

Childish  recollections,  with  their  purity, 
and  earnestness — a  sister's  love — a  mother's 
solicitude,  will  flood  your  soul  once  more 
with  a  gushing  sensibility  that  yearns  for 
enjoyment.  And  the  consciousness  of  some 
lingering  nobility  of  affection,  that  can  only 
grow  great  in  mating  itself  with  nobility 


MAN    OF   THE    WORLD 


229 


of  heart,  will  sweep  off  your  puny  triumphs, 
your  Platonic  friendships,  your  dashing 
coquetries,  like  the  foul  smoke  of  a  city 
before  a  fresh  breeze  of  the  country  au- 
tumn. 


Ali 


III 


MANLY   HOPE 

You  ARE  at  home  again ;  not  your  own 
home ;  that  is  gone  ;  but  at  the  home  of  Nelly 
and  of  Frank.  The  city  heats  of  summer 
drive  you  to  the  country.  You  ramble,  with 
a  little  kindling  of  old  desires  and  memories, 
over  the  hillsides  that  once  bounded  your 
boyish  vision.  Here,  you  netted  the  wild 
rabbits,  as  they  came  out  at  dusk  to  feed; 
there,  upon  that  tall  chestnut,  you  cruelly 
maimed  your  first  captive  squirrel.  The 
old  maples  are  even  now  scarred  with  the 
rude  cuts  you  gave  them  in  sappy  March. 

You  sit  down  upon  some  height,  overlook- 
ing the  valley  where  you  were  born ;  you 
trace  the  faint  silvery  line  of  river ;  you  de- 
tect by  the  leaning  elm  your  old  bathing 
place  upon  the  Saturdays  of  summer.  Your 
eye  dwells  upon  some  patches  of  pasture 
wood,  which  were  famous  for  their  nuts. 
Your  rambling  and  saddened  vision  roams 
over  the  houses ;  it  traces  the  familiar  chim- 
230 


MANLY    HOPE 


23I 


ney  stacks;  it  searches  out  the  low  lying 
cottages  ;  it  dwells  upon  the  gray  roof,  sleep- 
ing yonder  under  the  sycamores. 

Tears  swell  in  your  eye  as  you  gaze ;  you 
can  not  tell  whence  or  why  they  come.  Yet 
they  are  tears  eloquent  of  feeling.  They 
speak  of  brother  children — of  boyish  glee — 
of  the  flush  of  young  health — of  a  mother's 
devotion — of  the  home  affections — of  the 
vanities  of  life — of  the  wasting  years — of 
the  death  that  must  shroud  what  friends 
remain,  as  it  has  shrouded  what  friends  have 
gone — and  of  that  GREAT  HOPE,  beaming 
on  your  seared  manhood  dimly,  from  the 
upper  world. 

Your  wealth  suffices  for  all  the  luxuries 
of  life ;  there  is  no  fear  of  coming  want ; 
health  beats  strong  in  your  veins ;  you  have 
learned  to  hold  a  place  in  the  world  with 
a  man's  strength  and  a  man's  confidence. 
And  yet  in  the  view  of  those  sweet  scenes 
which  belonged  to  early  days,  when  neither 
strength,  confidence,  nor  wealth  was  yours, 
— days  never  to  come  again — a  shade  of 
melancholy  broods  upon  your  spirit,  and 
covers  with  its  veil  all  that  fierce  pride 
which  your  worldly  wisdom  has  wrought. 

You  visit  again,  with  Frank,  the  country 
homestead  of  his  grandfather;  he  is  dead, 


232 


DREAM-LIFE 


but  the  old  lady  still  lives ;  and  blind  Fanny, 
now  growing  toward  womanhood,  wears 
yet,  through  her  darkened  life,  the  same  air 
of  placid  content  and  of  sweet  trustfulness 
in  Heaven.  The  boys  whom  you  astounded 
with  your  stories  of  books  are  gone,  build- 
ing up  now  with  steady  industry  the  queen 
cities  of  our  new  western  land.  The  old 
clergyman  is  gone  from  the  desk,  and  from 
under  the  sounding-board ;  he  sleeps  be- 
neath a  brown  stone  slab  in  the  churchyard. 
The  stout  deacon  is  dead;  his  wig  and  his 
wickedness  rest  together'.  The  tall  chorister 
sings  yet ;  but  they  have  now  a  bass-viol — 
handled  by  a  new  schoolmaster,  in  place  of 
his  tuning-fork ;  and  the  years  have  sown 
feeble  quavers  in  his  voice. 

Once  more  you  meet  at  the  home  of  Nelly 
the  blue-eyed  Madge.  The  sixpence  is  all 
forgotten ;  you  can  not  tell  where  your 
half  of  it  is  gone.  Yet  she  is  beautiful, 
just  budding  into  the  full  ripeness  of 
womanhood.  Her  eyes  have  a  quiet  still 
joy,  and  hope  beaming  in  them,  like  angel's 
looks.  Her  motions  have  a  native  grace 
and  freedom  that  no  culture  can  bestow.  Her 
words  have  a  gentle  earnestness  and  hon- 
esty that  could  never  nurture  guile. 


MANLY    HOPE 


233 


You  had  thought,  after  your  gay  ex- 
periences of  the  world,  to  meet  her  with  a 
kind  condescension,  as  an  old  friend  of 
Nelly's.  But  there  is  that  in  her  eye  which 
forbids  all  thought  of  condescension.  There 
is  that  in  her  air  which  tells  of  a  high 
womanly  dignity,  which  can  only  be  met  on 
equal  ground.  Your  pride  is  piqued.  She 
has  known — she  must  know  your  history; 
but  it  does  not  tame  her.  There  is  no 
marked  and  submissive  appreciation  of  your 
gifts  as  a  man  of  the  world. 

She  meets  your  happiest  compliments 
with  a  very  easy  indifference;  she  receives 
your  elegant  civilities  with  a  very  assured 
brow.  She  neither  courts  your  society  nor 
avoids  it.  She  does  not  seek  to  provoke 
any  special  attention.  And  only  when  your 
old  self  glows  in  some  casual  kindness  to 
Nelly  does  her  look  beam  with  a  flush  of 
sympathy. 

This  look  touches  you.  It  makes  you  pon- 
der on  the  noble  heart  that  lives  in  Madge. 
It  makes  you  wish  it  were  yours.  But  that 
is  gone.  The  fervor  and  the  honesty  of  a 
glowing  youth  are  swallowed  up  in  the  flash 
and  splendor  of  the  world.  A  half-regret 
chases  over  you  at  nightfall  when  solitude 


234 


DREAM-LIFE 


pierces  you  with  the  swift  dart  of  gone-by 
memories.  But  at  morning  the  regret  dies 
in  the  glitter  of  ambitious  purposes. 

The  summer  months  linger ;  and  still  you 
linger  with  them.  Madge  is  often  with 
Nelly ;  and  Madge  is  never  less  than  Madge. 
You  venture  to  point  your  attentions  with 
a  little  more  fervor ;  but  she  meets  the  fervor 
with  no  glow.  She  knows  too  well  the  habit 
of  your  life. 

Strange  feelings  come  over  you — feelings 
like  half-forgotten  memories  —  mystical, 
dreamy,  doubtful.  You  have  seen  a  hun- 
dred faces  more  brilliant  than  that  of 
Madge ;  you  have  pressed  a  hundred  jeweled 
hands  that  have  returned  a  half  pressure  to 
yours.  You  do  not  exactly  admire ;  to  love 
you  have  forgotten  ;  you  only — linger ! 

It  is  a  soft  autumn  evening,  and  the  har- 
vest moon. is  red  and  round  over  the  east- 
ern skirt  of  woods.  You  are  attending 
Madge  to  that  little  cottage  home  where 
lives  that  gentle  and  doting  mother,  who  in 
the  midst  of  comparative  poverty  cherishes 
that  refined  delicacy  which  never  comes  to 
a  child  but  by  inheritance. 

Madge  has  been  passing  the  day  with 
Nelly.  Something — it  may  be  the  soft  au- 
tumn air  wafting  toward  you  the  freshness 


MANLY    HOPE  235 

of  young  days — moves  you  to  speak,  as  you 
have  not  ventured  to  speak — as  your  vanity 
has  not  allowed  you  to  speak  before. 

"You  remember,  Madge,"  (you  have 
guarded  this  sole  token  of  boyish  intimacy) 
"our  split  sixpence?" 

"Perfectly;"  it  is  a  short  word  to  speak, 
and  there  is  no  tremor  in  her  tone — not  the 
slightest. 

"You  have  it  yet?" 

"I  dare  say  I  have  it  somewhere ;"  no 
tremor  now ;  she  is  very  composed. 

"That  was  a  happy  time;"  very  great 
emphasis  on  the  word  happy. 

"Very  happy ;"  no  emphasis  anywhere. 

"I  sometimes  wish  I  might  live  it  over 
again." 

"Yes?"  inquiringly 

"There  are,  after  all,  no  pleasures  in  the 
world  like  those." 

"No?"  inquiringly  again. 

You  thought  you  had  learned  to  have  lan- 
guage at  command ;  you  never  thought, 
after  so  many  years'  schooling  of  the  world, 
that  your  pliant  tongue  would  play  you  tru- 
ant. Yet  now — you  are  silent. 

The  moon  steals  silvery  into  the  light 
flakes  of  cloud,  and  the  air  is  soft  as  May. 
The  cottage  is  in  sight.  Again  you  venture : 


^REAM-LIFE 


236 


"You  must  live  very  happily  here." 

"I  have  very  kind  friends:"  the  very  is 
emphasized. 

"I  am  sure  Nelly  loves  you  very  much." 

"Oh,  I  believe  it !"  with  great  earnestness. 

You  are  at  the  cottage  door. 

"Good  night,  Maggie,"  very  feelingly. 

"Good  night,  Clarence,"  very  kindly ;  and 
she  draws  her  hand  coyly,  and  half  tremu- 
lously, from  your  somewhat  fevered  grasp. 

You  stroll  away  dreamily — watching  the 
moon — running  over  your  fragmentary  life : 
half  moody,  half  pleased,  half  hopeful. 

You  come  back  stealthily,  and  with  a 
heart  throbbing  with  a  certain  wild  sense  of 
shame,  to  watch  the  light  gleaming  in  the 
cottage.  You  linger  in  the  shadows  of  the 
trees  until  you  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  fig- 
ure gliding  past  the  window.  You  bear  the 
image  home  with  you.  You  are  silent  on 
your  return.  You  retire  early;  but  you  do 
not  sleep  early. 

If  you  were  only  as  you  were :  if  it  were 
not  too  late !  If  Madge  could  only  love  you, 
as  you  know  she  will,  and  must  love  one 
manly  heart,  there  would  be  a  world  of  joy 
opening  before  you. 

You  draw  out  Nelly  to  speak  of  Madge: 
Nelly  is  very  prudent.  "Madge  is  a  dear 


MANLY   HOPE 


237 


girl,"  she  says.  Does  Nelly  even  distrust 
you?  It  is  a  sad  thing  to  be  too  much  a 
man  of  the  world. 

You  go  back  again  to  noisy  ambitious 
life :  you  try  to  drown  old  memories  in  its 
blaze  and  its  vanities.  Your  lot  seems  cast, 
beyond  all  change ;  and  you  task  yourself 
with  its  noisy  fulfilment.  But  amid  the  si- 
lence and  the  toil  of  your  office  hours,  a 
strange  desire  broods  over  your  spirit;  a 
desire  for  more  of  manliness — that  manli- 
ness which  feels  itself  a  protector  of  loving 
and  trustful  innocence. 

You  look  around  upon  the  faces  in  which 
you  have  smiled  unmeaning  smiles :  there 
is  nothing  there  to  feed  your  dawning  de- 
sires. You  meet  with  those  ready  to  court 
you  by  flattering  your  vanity — by  retailing 
the  praises  of  what  you  may  do  well — by 
odious  familiarity — by  brazen  proffer  of 
friendship ;  but  you  see  in  it  only  the  empti- 
ness and  the  vanity  which  you  have  studied 
to  enjoy. 

Sickness  comes  over  you,  and  binds  you 
for  weary  days  and  nights ;  in  which  life 
hovers  doubtfully,  and  the  lips  babble  se- 
crets that  you  cherish.  It  is  astonishing  how 
disease  clips  a  man  from  the  artificialities 
of  the  world.  Lying  lonely  upon  his  bed, 


238 


DREAM-LIFE 


moaning,  writhing,  suffering,  his  soul  joins 
on  to  the  universe  of  souls  by  only  natural 
bonds.  The  factitious  ties  of  wealth,  of 
place,  of  reputation,  vanish  from  his  bleared 
eyes ;  and  the  earnest  heart,  deep  under  all, 
craves  only  heartiness. 

The  old  yearning  of  the  office  silence 
comes  back:  not  with  the  proud  wish  only 
of  being  a  protector,  but — of  being  pro- 
tected. And  whatever  may  be  the  trust  in 
that  beneficent  Power,  who  "chasteneth 
whom  He  loveth",  there  is  yet  an  earnest 
human  leaning  toward  some  one,  whose  love 
— most,  and  whose  duty — least,  would 
call  her  to  your  side ;  whose  soft  hands 
would  cool  the  fever  of  yours — whose 
step  would  wake  a  throb  of  joy — whose 
voice  would  tie  you  to  life,  and  whose  pres- 
ence would  make  the  worst  of  death — an 
adieu ! 

As  you  gain  strength  once  more,  you  go 
back  to  Nelly's  home.  Her  kindness  does 
not  falter;  every  care  and  attention  belong 
to  you  there.  Again  your  eye  rests  upon 
that  figure  of  Madge,  and  upon  her  face, 
wearing  an  even  gentler  expression  as  she 
sees  you  sitting  pale  and  feeble  by  the  old 
hearthstone.  She  brings  flowers — for  Nelly : 
you  beg  Nelly  to  place  them  upon  the  lit- 


MANLY    HOPE 


239 


tie  table  at  your  side.  It  is  as  yet  the  only 
taste  of  the  country  that  you  can  enjoy.  You 
love  those  flowers. 

After  a  time  you  grow  strong,  and  walk 
in  the  fields.  You  linger  until  nightfall. 
You  pass  by  the  cottage  where  Madge  lives. 
It  is  your  pleasantest  walk.  The  trees  are 
greenest  in  that  direction ;  the  shadows  are 
softest;  the  flowers  are  thickest. 

It  is  strange — this  feeling  in  you.  It  is 
not  the  feeling  you  had  for  Laura  Dalton. 
It  does  not  even  remind  of  that.  That  was 
an  impulse;  but  this  is  growth.  That  was 
strong;  but  this  is — strength.  You  catch 
sight  of  her  little  notes  to  Nelly;  you  read 
them  over  and  over ;  you  treasure  them ; 
you  learn  them  by  heart.  There  is  some- 
thing in  the  very  writing  that  touches  you. 

You  bid  her  adieu  with  tones  of  kindness 
that  tremble ;  and  that  meet  a  half  trembling 
tone  in  reply.  She  is  very  good. 

If  it  were  not  too  late! 


MANLY  LOVE 

AND  SHALL  pride  yield  at  length? 

Pride! — and  what  has  love  to  do  with 
pride  ?  Let  us  see  how  it  is. 

Madge  is  poor ;  she  is  humble.  You  are 
rich ;  you  are  a  man  of  the  world ;  you  are 
met  respectfully  by  the  veterans  of  fashion ; 
you  have  gained,  perhaps,  a  kind  of  bril- 
liancy of  position. 

Would  it  then  be  a  condescension  to  love 
Madge?  Dare  you  ask  yourself  such  a 
question?  Do  you  not  know — in  spite  of 
your  worldliness — that  the  man  or  the 
woman  who  condescends  to  love,  never 
loves  in  earnest? 

But  again,  Madge  is  possessed  of  a  purity, 
a  delicacy,  and  a  dignity  that  lift  her  far 
above  you — that  make  you  feel  your  weak- 
ness, and  your  unworthiness ;  and  it  is  the 
deep  and  the  mortifying  sense  of  this  un- 
worthiness that  makes  you  bolster  yourself 
240 


MANLY   LOVE 


241 


upon  your  pride.  You  know  that  you  do 
yourself  honor  in  loving-  such  grace  and 
goodness;  you  know  that  you  would  be 
honored  tenfold  more  than  you  deserve  in 
being  loved  by  so  much  grace  and  good- 
ness. 

It  scarce  seems  to  you  possible ;  it  is  a 
joy  too  great  to  be  hoped  for:  and  in  the 
doubt  of  its  attainment,  your  old  worldly 
vanity  comes  in,  and  tells  you — to  beware; 
and  to  live  on  in  the  splendor  of  your  dis- 
sipation and  in  the  lusts  of  your  selfish 
habit.  Yet  still,  underneath  all,  there  is  a 
deep  low  voice,  quickened  from  above, 
which  assures  you  that  you  are  capable  of 
better  things ;  that  you  are  not  wholly  rec- 
reant ;  that  a  mine  of  unstarted  tenderness 
still  lies  smoldering  in  your  soul. 

And  with  this  sense  quickening  your  bet- 
ter nature,  you  venture  the  wealth  of  your 
whole  emotional  nature  upon  the  hope  that 
now  blazes  on  your  path. 

You  are  seated  at  your  desk,  working 
with  such  zeal  of  labor  as  your  ambitious 
projects  never  could  command.  It  is  a 
letter  to  Margaret  Boyne  that  so  tasks  your 
love,  and  makes  the  veins  upon  your  fore- 
head swell  with  the  earnestness  of  the  em- 
ploy. 


242 


DREAM-LIFE 


"DEAR  MADGE — May  I  not  call  you  thus, 
if  only  in  memory  of  our  childish  affections ; 
and  might  I  dare  to  hope  that  a  riper  affec- 
tion, which  your  character  has  awakened, 
may  permit  me  to  call  you  thus  always? 

"If  I  have  not  ventured  to  speak,  dear 
Madge,  will  you  not  believe  that  the  con- 
sciousness of  my  own  ill-desert  has  tied  my 
tongue  ;  will  you  not,  at  least,  give  me  credit 
for  a  little  remaining  modesty  of  heart? 
You  know  my  life,  and  you  know  my  char- 
acter— what  a  sad  jumble  of  errors,  and  of 
misfortunes  have  belonged  to  each.  You 
know  the  careless  and  the  vain  purposes 
which  have  made  me  recreant  to  the  better 
nature  which  belonged  to  that  sunny  child- 
hood, when  we  lived  and  grew  up  to- 
? ether.  And  will  you  not  believe  me  when 
say,  that  your  grace  of  character,  and 
kindness  of  heart,  have  drawn  me  back 
from  the  follies  in  which  I  lived ;  and  quick- 
ened new  desires,  which  I  thought  to  be 
wholly  dead?  Can  I  indeed  hope  that  you 
will  overlook  all  that  has  gained  your  secret 
reproaches ;  and  confide  in  a  heart  which 
is  made  conscious  of  better  things  by  the 
love  you  have  inspired? 

"Ah,  Madge,  it  is  not  with  a  vain  show 
of  words,  or  with  any  counterfeit  of  feeling, 


MANLY   LOVE 


243 


I 


that  I  write  now ;  you  know  it  is  not ;  you 
know  that  my  heart  is  leaning  toward  you 
with  the  freshness  of  its  noblest  instincts; 
you  know  that — I  love  you ! 

"Can  I,  dare  I  hope,  that  it  is  not  spoken 
in  vain?  I  had  thought  in  my  pride  never 
to  make  such  avowal — never  again  to  sue 
for  affection;  but  your  gentleness,  your 
modesty,  your  virtues  of  life  and  heart,  have 
conquered  me.  I  am  sure  you  will  treat  me 
with  the  generosity  of  a  victor. 

"You  know  my  weaknesses ;  I  would  not 
conceal  from  you  a  single  one — even  to  win 
you.  I  can  offer  nothing  to  you  which 
will  bear  comparison  in  value  with  what  is 
yours  to  bestow.  I  can  only  offer  this  feeble 
hand  of  mine — to  guard  you ;  and  this  poor 
heart — to  love  you. 

"Am  I  rash  ?  Am  I  extravagant  in  word, 
or  in  hope?  Forgive  it  then,  dear  Madge, 
for  the  sake  of  our  old  childish  affection; 
and  believe  me,  when  I  say  that  what  is  here 
written — is  written  honestly  and  tear- 
fully. Adieu." 

It  is  with  no  fervor  of  boyish  passion, 
that  you  fold  this  letter :  it  is  with  the  trem- 
bling hand  of  eager  and  earnest  manhood. 
They  tell  you  that  man  is  not  capable  of 


244 


DREAM-LIFE 


love;  so  the  September  sun  is  not  capable 
of  warmth.  It  may  not  indeed  be  so  fierce 
as  that  of  July:  but  it  is  steadier.  It  does 
not  force  great  flaunting  leaves  into  breadth 
and  succulence,  but  it  matures  whole  har- 
vests of  plenty. 

There  is  a  deep  and  earnest  soul  pervad- 
ing the  reply  of  Madge  that  makes  it  sacred ; 
it  is  full  of  delicacy,  and  full  of  hope. 
Yet  it  is  not  final.  Her  heart  lies  en- 
trenched within  the  ramparts  of  Duty  and  of 
Devotion.  It  is  a  citadel  of  strength  in  the 
middle  of  the  city  of  her  affections.  To 
win  the  way  to  it,  there  must  be  not  only 
earnestness  of  love,  but  earnestness  of  life. 

Weeks  roll  by ;  and  other  letters  pass  and 
are  answered — a  glow  of  warmth  beaming 
on  either  side. 

You  are  again  at  the  home  of  Nelly ;  she 
is  very  joyous;  she  is  the  confidante  of 
Madge.  Nelly  feels,  that  with  all  your  er- 
rors, you  have  enough  inner  goodness  of 
heart  to  make  Madge  happy ;  and  she  feels 
— doubly — that  Madge  has  such  excess  of 
goodness  as  will  cover  your  heart  with  joy. 
Yet  she  tells  you  very  little.  She  will  give 
you  no  full  assurance  of  the  love  of  Madge ; 
she  leaves  that  for  yourself  to  win. 

She  will  even  tease  you  in  her  pleasant 


MANLY    LOVE 


245 


way  until  hope  almost  changes  to  despair; 
and  your  brow  grows  pale  with  the  dread 
— that  even  now  your  unworthiness  may 
condemn  you. 

It  is  summer  weather ;  and  you  have  been 
walking  over  the  hills  of  home  with  Madge 
and  Nelly.  Nelly  has  found  some  excuse 
to  leave  you — glancing  at  you  most  teasing- 
ly  as  she  hurries  away. 

You  are  left  sitting  with  Madge  upon  a 
bank  tufted  with  blue  violets.  You  have 
been  talking  of  the  days  of  childhood,  and 
some  word  has  called  up  the  old  chain  of 
boyish  feeling,  and  joined  it  to  your  new 
hope. 

What  you  would  say  crowds  too  fast 
for  utterance;  and  you  abandon  it.  But 
you  take  from  your  pocket  that  little  broken 
bit  of  sixpence — which  you  have  found  after 
long  search — and  without  a  word,  but  with 
a  look  that  tells  your  inmost  thought,  you 
lay  it  in  the  half-opened  hand  of  Madge. 

She  looks  at  you,  with  a  slight  suffusion 
of  color — seems  to  hesitate  a  moment — 
raises  her  other  hand,  and  draws  from  her 
bosom,  by  a  bit  of  blue  ribbon,  a  little 
locket.  She  touches  a  spring  and  there  falls 
beside  your  relic — another,  that  had  once 
belonged  to  it. 


DREAM-LIFE 


Hope  glows  now  like  the  sun. 

"And  you  have  worn  this,  Maggie?" 

"Always !" 

"Dear  Madge !" 

"Dear  Clarence!" 

And  you  pass  your  arm  now,  unchecked, 
around  that  yielding  graceful  figure ;  and 
fold  her  to  your  bosom  with  the  swift  and 
blessed  assurance  that  your  fullest  and 
noblest  dream  of  love  is  won. 


CHEER  AND   CHILDREN 

WHAT  a  glow  there  is  to  the  sun !  What 
warmth — yet  it  does  not  oppress  you ;  what 
coolness — yet  it  is  not  too  cool.  The  birds 
sing  sweetly:  you  catch  yourself  watching 
to  see  what  new  songsters  they  can  be ;  they 
are  only  the  old  robins  and  thrushes;  yet 
what  a  new  melody  is  in  their  throats. 

The  clouds  hang  gorgeous  shapes  upon 
the  sky — shapes  they  could  hardly  ever  have 
fashioned  before.  The  grass  was  never  so 
green,  the  buttercups  were  never  so  plenty ; 
there  was  never  such  a  life  in  the  leaves.  It 
seems  as  if  the  joyousness  in  you  gave  a 
throb  to  nature  that  made  every  green  thing 
buoyant. 

Faces,  too,  are  changed ;  men  look  pleas- 
antly, children  are  all  charming  children; 
even  babies  look  tender  and  lovable.  The 
street  beggar  at  your  door  is  suddenly 
grown  into  a  Belisarius,  and  is  one  of  the 
most  deserving  heroes  of  modern  times; 
247 


248 


DREAM-LIFE 


your  mind  is  in  a  continued  ferment;  you 
glide  through  your  toil  —  dashing  out 
sparkles  of  passion — like  a  ship  in  the  sea. 
No  difficulty  daunts  you ;  there  is  a  kind  of 
buoyancy  in  your  soul  that  rocks  over  dan- 
ger or  doubt,  as  sea-waves  heave  calmly  and 
smoothly  over  sunken  rocks. 

You  grow  unusually  amiable  and  kind ; 
you  are  earnest  in  your  search  of  friends ; 
you  shake  hands  with  your  office  boy  as  if 
he  were  your  second  cousin.  You  joke 
cheerfully  with  the  stout  washerwoman ; 
and  give  her  a  shilling  over-change  and  in- 
sist upon  her  keeping  it:  and  grow  quite 
merry  at  the  recollection  of  it.  You  tap 
your  hackman  on  the  shoulder  very  fa- 
miliarly, and  tell  him  he  is  a  capital  fel- 
low ;  and  don't  allow  him  to  whip  his  horses 
except  when  driving  to  the  post-office.  You 
even  ask  him  to  take  a  glass  of  beer  with 
you  upon  some  chilly  evening.  You  drink 
to  the  health  of  his  wife.  He  says  he  has 
no  wife — whereupon  you  think  him  a  very 
miserable  man,  and  give  him  a  dollar,  by 
way  of  consolation. 

You  think  all  the  editorials  in  the  morn- 
ing papers  are  remarkably  well-written — 
whether  upon  your  side,  or  upon  the  other. 
You  think  the  stock-market  has  a  very 


CHEER  AND   CHILDREN 


cheerful  look,  even  with  Erie — of  which 
you  are  a  large  holder — down  to  seventy- 
five.  You  wonder  why  you  never  admired 
Mrs.  Hemans  before,  or  Stoddard,  or  any 
of  the  rest. 

You  give  a  pleasant  twirl  to  your  fingers 
as  you  saunter  along  the  street ;  and  say — 
but  not  so  loud  as  to  be  overheard — "She 
is  mine — she  is  mine !" 

You  wonder  if  Frank  ever  loved  Nelly 
one  half  as  well  as  you  love  Madge?  You 
feel  quite  sure  he  never  did.  You  can 
hardly  conceive  how  it  is  that  Madge  has 
not  been  seized  before  now,  by  scores  of 
enamored  men,  and  borne  off,  like  the  Sa- 
bine  women  in  Romish  history.  You  chuckle 
over  your  future  like  a  boy  who  has  found  a 
guinea  in  groping  for  sixpences.  You  read 
over  the  marriage  service — thinking  of  the 
time  when  you  will  take  her  hand,  and  slip 
the  ring  upon  her  finger ;  and  repeat  after 
the  clergyman — "for  richer — for  poorer ; 
for  better — for  worse."  A  great  deal  of 
"worse"  there  will  be  about  it,  you  think! 

Through  all,  your  heart  cleaves  to  that 
sweet  image  of  the  beloved  Madge,  as  light 
cleaves  to  day.  The  weeks  leap  with  a 
bound;  and  the  months  only  grow  long, 
when  you  approach  that  day  which  is  to 


250 


DREAM-LIFE 


make  her  yours.  There  are  no  flowers  rare 
enough  to  make  bouquets  for  her ;  diamonds 
are  too  dim  for  her  to  wear ;  pearls  are  tame. 

And  after  marriage  the  weeks  are  even 
shorter  than  before;  you  wonder  why  on 
earth  all  the  single  men  in  the  world  do  not 
rush  tumultuously  to  the  altar;  you  look 
upon  them  all  as  a  traveled  man  will  look 
upon  some  conceited  Dutch  boor  who  has 
never  ridden  beyond  the  limits  of  his  cab- 
bage-garden. Married  men,  on  the  contrary, 
you  regard  as  fellow-voyagers;  and  look 
upon  their  wives — ugly  as  they  may  be — as 
better  than  none. 

You  blush  a  little  at  first  telling  your 
butcher  what  "your  wife"  would  like;  you 
bargain  with  the  grocer  for  sugars  and 
teas,  and  wonder  if  he  knows  that  you  are 
a  married  man?  You  practise  your  new 
way  of  talk  upon  your  office  boy;  you  tell 
him  that  "your  wife"  expects  you  home  to 
dinner ;  and  are  astonished  that  he  does  not 
stare  to  hear  you  say  it. 

You  wonder  if  the  people  in  the  omnibus 
know  that  Madge  and  you  are  just  married ; 
and  if  the  driver  knows  that  the  shilling 
you  hand  to  him  is  for  "self  and  wife?" 
You  wonder  if  anybody  was  ever  so  happy 
before,  or  ever  will  be  so  happy  again? 


CHEER  AND  CHILDREN 


You  enter  your  name  upon  the  hotel  books 

as  "Clarence  and  Wife;"  and  come 

back  to  look  at  it — wondering  if  anybody 
else  has  noticed  it,  and  thinking  that  it 
looks  remarkably  well.  You  can  not  help 
thinking  that  every  third  man  you  meet  in 
the  hall  wishes  he  possessed  your  wife ; 
nor  do  you  think  it  very  sinful  in  him  to 
wish  it.  You  fear  it  is  placing  temptation 
in  the  way  of  covetous  men,  to  put  Madge's 
little  gaiters  outside  the  chamber  door  at 
night. 

Your  home,  when  it  is  entered,  is  just 
what  it  should  be :  quiet,  small,  with  every- 
thing she  wishes,  and  nothing  more  than 
she  wishes.  The  sun  strikes  it  in  the  hap- 
piest possible  way;  the  piano  is  the  sweet- 
est-toned in  the  world  ;  the  library  is  stocked 
to  a  charm ;  and  Madge,  that  blessed  wife, 
is  there — adorning  and  giving  life  to  it  all. 
To  think  even  of  her  possible  death,  is  a 
suffering  you  class  with  the  infernal  tor- 
tures of  the  Inquisition.  You  grow  twin 
of  heart,  and  of  purpose.  Smiles  seem  made 
for  marriage ;  and  you  wonder  how  you  ever 
wore  them  before. 

So  a  year  and  more  wears  off  of  mingled 
home-life,  visiting,  and  travel.  A  new  hope 


252 


\\ 


DREAM-LIFE 

and  joy  lightens  home — there  is  a  child 
there. 

What  a  joy  to  be  a  father!  What  new 
emotions  crowd  the  eye  with  tears,  and  make 
the  hand  tremble!  What  a  benevolence 
radiates  from  you  toward  the  nurse — toward 
the  physician — toward  everybody!  What 
a  holiness  and  sanctity  of  love  grows  upon 
your  old  devotion  to  that  wife  of  your 
bosom — the  mother  of  your  child ! 

The  excess  of  joy  seems  almost  to  blur 
the  stories  of  happiness  which  attach  to 
heaven.  You  are  now  joined,  as  you  were 
never  joined  before,  to  the  great  family  of 
man.  Your  name  and  blood  will  live  after 
you;  nor  do  you  once  think  (what  father 
can?)  but  that  it  will  live  honorably  and 
well. 

With  what  a  new  air  you  walk  the  streets ! 
With  what  a  triumph  you  speak  in  your 
letter  to  Nelly — of  "your  family!"  Who, 
that  has  not  felt  it,  knows  what  it  is  to  be 
"a  man  of  family!" 

How  weak  now  seem  all  the  imaginations 
of  your  single  life :  what  bare  dry  skeletons 
of  the  reality,  they  furnished !  You  pity 
the  poor  fellows  who  have  no  wives  or 
children — from  your  soul :  you  can  count 


CHEER   AND   CHILDREN 


253 


their  smiles  as  empty  smiles,  put  on  to 
cover  the  lack  that  is  in  them.  There  is  a 
freemasonry  among  fathers,  that  they  know 
nothing  of.  You  compassionate  them  deep- 
ly: you  think  them  worthy  objects  of  some 
charitable  association :  you  would  cheerfully 
buy  tracts  for  them,  if  they  would  but  read 
them — tracts  on  marriage  and  children. 

And  then  "the  boy" — such  a  boy! 

There  was  a  time,  when  you  thought  all 
babies  very  much  alike :  alike  ?  Is  your  boy 
like  anything,  except  the  wonderful  fellow 
that  he  is  ?  Was  there  ever  a  baby  seen,  or 
even  read  of,  like  that  baby! 

Look  at  him :  pick  him  up  in  his  long 
white  gown:  he  may  have  an  excess  of 
color,  but  such  a  pretty  color !  he  is  a  little 
pouty  about  the  mouth — but  such  a  mouth ! 
His  hair  is  a  little  scant,  and  he  is  rather 
wandering  in  the  eye;  but,  good  heavens, 
what  an  eye! 

There  was  a  time  when  you  thought  it 
very  absurd  for  fathers  to  talk  about  their 
children;  but  it  does  not  seem  at  all  ab- 
surd now.  You  think,  on  the  contrary,  that 
your  old  friends,  who  used  to  sup  with  you 
at  the  club,  would  be  delighted  to  know 
how  your  baby  is  getting  on,  and  how  much 
he  measures  around  the  calf  of  the  leg! 


254 


DREAM-LIFE 


If  they  pay  you  a  visit,  you  are  quite  sure 
they  are  in  agony  to  see  Frank;  and  you 
hold  the  little  squirming  fellow  in  your 
arms,  half  conscience-smitten  for  provok- 
ing them  to  such  envy  as  they  must  be  suf- 
fering. You  make  a  settlement  upon  the 
boy  with  a  chuckle — as  if  you  were  treating 
yourself  to  a  mint-julep — instead  of  convey- 
ing away  a  few  thousands  of  seven  per 
cents. 

Then  the  boy  develops  astonishingly. 
What  a  head,  what  a  foot,  what  a  voice! 
And  he  is  so  quiet  withal ;  never  known  to 
cry,  except  under  such  provocation  as  would 
draw  tears  from  a  heart  of  adamant;  in 
short,  for  the  first  six  months,  he  is  never 
anything  but  gentle,  patient,  earnest,  lov- 
ing, intellectual  and  magnanimous.  You  are 
half  afraid  that  some  of  the  physicians  will 
be  reporting  the  case  as  one  of  the  most  re- 
markable instances  of  perfect  moral  and 
physical  development  on  record. 

But  the  years  roll  on,  in  which  your 
extravagant  fancies  die  into  the  earnest  ma- 
turity of  a  father's  love.  You  struggle 
gaily  with  the  cares  that  life  brings  to  your 
door.  You  feel  the  strength  of  three  beings 
in  your  single  arm;  and  feel  your  heart 
warming  toward  God  and  man,  with  the 


II 


CHEER  AND  CHILDREN 


255 


added  warmth  of  two  other  loving  and 
trustful  beings. 

How  eagerly  you  watch  the  first  tottering 
step  of  that  boy:  how  you  riot  in  the  joy 
and  pride  that  swell  in  that  mother's  eyes, 
as  they  follow  his  feeble  staggering  mo- 
tions !  Can  God  bless  His  creatures,  more 
than  He  has  blessed  that  dear  Madge  and 
you?  Has  heaven  even  richer  joys  than 
live  in  that  home  of  yours  ? 

By  and  by  he  speaks ;  and  minds  tie  to- 
gether by  language,  as  the  hearts  have  long 
tied  by  looks.  He  wanders  with  you,  feebly, 
and  with  slow  wqndering  paces,  upon  the 
verge  of  the  great  universe  of  thought.  His 
little  eye  sparkles  with  some  vague  fancy 
that  comes  upon  him  first  by  language. 
Madge  teaches  him  the  words  of  affection, 
and  of  thankfulness;  and  she  teaches  him 
to  lisp  infant  prayer;  and  by  secret  pains, 
(how  could  she  be  so  secret?)  instructs 
him  in  some  little  phrase  of  endearment, 
that  she  knows  will  touch  your  heart;  and 
then  she  watches  your  coming ;  and  the  lit- 
tle fellow  runs  toward  you,  and  warbles  out 
his  lesson  of  love,  in  tones  that  forbid  you 
any  answer — save^  only  those  brimming  eyes, 
turned  first  on  her,  and  then  on  him;  and 


//  f 

I 


DREAM-LIFE 

poorly  concealed,  by  the  quick  embrace,  and 
the  kisses  which  you  shower  in  transport! 

Still  slip  on  the  years,  like  brimming  bowls 
of  nectar.  Another  Madge  is  sister  to 
Frank;  and  a  little  Nelly  is  younger  sister 
to  this  other  Madge. 

Three  of  them — a  charmed  and  mystic 
number;  which  if  it  be  broken  in  these 
young  days — as,  alas,  it  may  be ! — will  only 
yield  a  cherub  angel  to  float  over  you,  and 
to  float  over  them — to  wean  you,  and  to 
wean  them,  from  this  world,  where  all  joys 
do  perish,  to  that  seraph  world  where  joys 
do  last  forever. 


I 


VI 


A  DREAM  OF  DARKNESS 

Is  OUR  life  a  sun,  that  it  should  radiate 
light  and  heat  forever?  Do  not  the  calmest 
and  brightest  days  of  autumn  show  clouds 
that  drift  their  ragged  edges  over  the 
golden  disk;  and  bear  down  swift,  with 
their  weight  of  vapors,  until  the  whole  sun's 
surface  is  shrouded;  and  you  can  see  no 
shadow  of  tree  or  flower  upon  the  land,  be- 
cause of  the  greater,  and  gulfing  shadow  of 
the  cloud? 

Will  not  life  bear  me  out ;  will  not  truth, 
earnest  and  stern  around  me,  make  good 
the  terrible  imagination  that  now  comes 
swooping  heavily  and  darkly,  upon  my 
brain  ? 

You  are  living  in  a  little  village,  not  far 
away  from  the  city.  It  is  a  graceful  and 
luxurious  home  that  you  possess.  The 
holly  and  the  laurel  gladden  its  lawn  in  win- 
ter; and  bowers  of  blossoms  sweeten  it 
through  all  the  summer.  You  know,  each 

257 


DREAM-LIFE 

fday  of  your  return  from  the  town,  where 
first  you  will  catch  sight  of  that  graceful 
figure,  flitting  like  a  shadow  of  love  be- 
neath the  trees:  you  know  well  where  you 
will  meet  the  joyous  and  noisy  welcome  of 
stout  Frank,  and  of  tottling  Nelly.  Day 
after  day,  and  week  after  week,  they  fail 
not. 

A  friend  sometimes  attends  you;  and  a 
friend  to  you  is  always  a  friend  to  Madge. 
In  the  city  you  fall  in  once  more  with  your 
old  acquaintance  Dalton ;  the  graceful,  win- 
ning, yet  dissolute  man  that  his  youth  prom- 
ised. He  wishes  to  see  your  cottage  home. 
Your  heart  half  hesitates :  yet  it  seems  folly 
to  cherish  distrust  of  a  boon  companion  in 
so  many  of  your  revels. 

Madge  receives  him  with  that  sweet 
smile  which  welcomes  all  your  friends.  He 
gains  the  heart  of  Frank  by  talking  of  his 
toys,  and  of  his  pigeons ;  and  he  wins  upon 
the  tenderness  of  the  mother  by  his  atten- 
tions to  the  child.  Even  you  repent  of  your 
passing  shadow  of  dislike,  and  feel  your 
heart  warming  toward  him  as  he  takes  little 
Nelly  in  his  arms,  and  provokes  her  joyous 
prattle. 

Madge  is  unbounded  in  her  admiration  of 
your  friend :  he  renews,  at  your  solicitation, 


A  DREAM    OF  DARKNESS  259 

HI  if?' 

his  visit:  he  proves  kinder  than  ever;  and 
you  grow  ashamed  of  your  distrust. 

Madge  is  not  learned  in  the  arts  of  city 
life;  the  accomplishments  of  a  man  of  the 
world  are  almost  new  to  her;  she  listens 
with  eagerness  to  Dalton's  graphic  stories 
of  foreign  fetes,  and  luxury  ;  she  is  charmed 
with  his  clear  bold  voice,  and  with  his 
manly  execution  of  little  operatic  airs. 

She  is  beautiful  —  that  wife  who  has  made 
your  heart  whole,  by  its  division  —  fearfully 
beautiful.  And  she  is  not  cold,  or  impass- 
ive; her  heart,  though  fond  and  earnest,  is 
yet  human;  we  are  all  human.  The  ac- 
complishments and  graces  of  the  world 
must  needs  take  hold  upon  her  fancy.  And 
a  fear  creeps  over  you,  that  you  dare  not 
whisper  —  that  those  graces  may  cast  into 
the  shade  your  own  yearning  and  silent 
tenderness. 

But  this  is  a  selfish  fear  that  you  think 
you  have  no  right  to  cherish.  She  takes 
pleasure  in  the  society  of  Dalton  —  what 
right  have  you  to  say  her  —  nay?  His  char- 
acter indeed  is  not  altogether  such  as  you 
could  wish  ;  but  will  it  not  be  selfish  to  tell 
her  even  this?  Will  it  not  be  even  worse, 
and  show  a  taint  of  a  lurking  suspicion, 
which  you  know  would  wound  her  grievous- 


8     € 


260 


DREAM-LIFE 


ly?  You  struggle  with  your  distrust  by 
meeting  him  more  kindly  than  ever;  yet, 
at  times,  there  will  steal  over  you  a  sadness, 
which  that  dear  Madge  detects,  and  sor- 
rowing in  her  turn,  tries  to  draw  away  from 
you  by  the  touching  kindness  of  sympathy. 
Her  look  and  manner  kill  all  your  doubt ; 
and  you  show  that  it  is  gone,  and  piously 
conceal  the  cause  by  welcoming  in  gayer 
tones  than  ever  the  man  who  has  fostered 
it  by  his  presence. 

Business  calls  you  away  to  a  great  dis- 
tance from  home ;  it  is  the  first  long  parting 
of  your  real  manhood.  And  can  suspicion 
or  a  fear  lurk  amid  those  tearful  embraces  ? 
Not  one — thank  God — not  one ! 

Your  letters,  frequent  and  earnest,  be- 
speak your  increased  devotion ;  and  the  em- 
braces you  bid  her  give  to  the  sweet  ones 
of  your  little  flock  tell  of  the  calmness  and 
sufficiency  of  your  love.  Her  letters,  too, 
are  running  over  with  affection — what 
though  she  mentions  the  frequent  visits  of 
Dalton  and  tells  stories  of  his  kindness  and 
attachment  ?  You  feel  safe  in  her  strength ; 
and  yet — yet  there  is  a  brooding  terror  that 
rises  out  of  your  knowledge  of  Dalton's 
character. 

And  can  you  tell  her  this;  can  you  stab 


A  DREAM    OF  DARKNESS  26l 

her  fondness,  now  that  you  are  away,  with 
even  a  hint  of  what  would  crush  her  delicate 
nature  ? 

What  you  know  to  be  love,  and  what  you 
fancy  to  be  duty,  struggle  long;  but  love 
conquers.  And  with  sweet  trust  in  her,  and 
double  trust  in  God,  you  await  your  return. 
That  return  will  be  speedier  than  you  think. 

You  receive  one  day  a  letter ;  it  is  ad- 
dressed in  the  hand  of  a  friend,  who  is  often 
at  the  cottage,  but  who  has  rarely  written 
to  you.  What  can  have  tempted  him  now? 
Has  any  harm  come  near  your  home?  No 
wonder  your  hands  tremble  at  the  opening 
of  that  sheet ;  no  wonder  that  your  eyes  run 
like  lightning  over  the  hurried  lines.  Yet 
there  is  little  in  them — very  little.  The  hand 
is  stout  and  fair.  It  is  a  calm  letter — a 
friendly  letter  ;  but  it  is  short — terribly  short. 
It  bids  you  come  home — "at  once!" 

And  you  go.  It  is  a  pleasant  country  you 
have  to  travel  through;  but  you  see  very 
little  of  the  country.  It  is  a  dangerous  voy- 
age, perhaps,  you  have  to  make ;  but  you 
think  very  little  of  the  danger.  The  creak- 
ing of  the  timbers  and  the  lashing  of  the 
waves  are  quieting  music  compared  with 
the  storm  of  your  raging  fears.  All  the 
while  you  associate  Dalton  with  the  terror 


262 


DREAM-LIFE 


that  seems  to  hang  over  you ;  and  yet — your 
trust  in  Madge  is  true  as  heaven! 

At  length  you  approach  that  home ;  there 
lies  your  cottage  lying  sweetly  upon  its  hill- 
side; and  the  autumn  winds  are  soft;  and 
the  maple-tops  sway  gracefully,  all  clothed 
in  the  scarlet  of  their  frost-dress.  Once 
again,  as  the  sun  sinks  behind  the  mountain 
with  a  trail  of  glory,  and  the  violet  haze 
tints  the  gray  clouds  like  so  many  robes 
of  angels,  you  take  heart  and  courage ;  and 
with  firm  reliance  on  the  Providence  that 
fashions  all  forms  of  beauty,  whether  in 
heaven  or  in  heart,  your  fears  spread  out 
and  vanish  with  the  waning  twilight. 

She  is  not  at  the  cottage  door  to  meet 
you ;  she  does  not  expect  you ;  and  yet  your 
bosom  heaves,  and  your  breathing  is  quick. 
Your  friend  meets  you,  and  shakes  your 
hand.  "Clarence,"  he  says  with  the  tender- 
ness of  an  old  friend,  "be  a  man !" 

Alas,  you  are  a  man ;  with  a  man's  heart, 
and  a  man's  fear,  and  a  man's  agony !  Little 
Frank  comes  bounding  toward  you  joyously 
— yet  under  traces  of  tears:  "Oh,  papa, 
mother  is  gone!" 

"Gone!"  And  you  turn  to  the  face  of 
your  friend ;  it  is  well  he  is  near  by,  or  you 
would  have  fallen. 


A  DREAM  OF  DARKNESS 


263 


He  can  tell  you  very  little ;  he  has  known 
the  character  of  Dalton;  he  has  seen  with 
fear  his  assiduous  attentions — tenfold  mul- 
tiplied since  your  leave.  He  has  trembled 
for  the  issue :  this  very  morning  he  observed 
a  carriage  at  the  door ;  they  drove  away  to- 
gether. You  have  no  strength  to  question 
him.  You  see  that  he  fears  the  worst;  he 
does  not  know  Madge,  so  well  as  you. 

And  can  it  be  ?  Are  you  indeed  widowed 
with  that  most  terrible  of  widowhoods?  Is 
your  wife  living — and  yet — lost?  Talk  not 
to  such  a  man  of  the  woes  of  sickness,  of 
poverty,  of  death ;  he  will  laugh  at  your 
mimicry  of  grief. 

All  is  blackness ;  whichever  way  you  turn, 
it  is  the  same ;  there  is  no  light ;  your  eye  is 
put  out ;  your  soul  is  desolate  forever.  The 
heart,  by  which  you  had  grown  up  into  the 
full  stature  of  joy  and  blessing,  is  rooted 
out  of  you,  and  thrown  like  something  loath- 
some, at  which  the  carrion  dogs  of  the  world 
scent  and  snuffle. 

They  will  point  at  you  as  the  man  who 
has  lost  all  that  he  prized;  and  she  has 
stolen  it,  whom  he  prized  more  than  what 
was  stolen.  And  he,  the  accursed  miscreant ! 
But  no,  it  can  never  be.  Madge  is  as  true 
as  Heaven ! 


264 


DREAM-LIFE 


Yet  she  is  not  there:  whence  comes  the 
light  that  is  to  cheer  you? 

Your  children  ? 

Ay,  your  children — your  little  Nelly — 
your  noble  Frank — they  are  yours ;  doubly, 
trebly,  tenfold  yours,  now  that  she,  their 
mother,  is  a  mother  no  more  to  them,  for- 
ever! 

Ay,  close  your  doors ;  shut  out  the  world ; 
draw  close  your  curtains ;  fold  them  to  your 
heart — your  crushed,  bleeding,  desolate 
heart.  Lay  your  forehead  to  the  soft  cheek 
of  your  noble  boy ;  beware,  beware  how  you 
dampen  that  damask  cheek  with  your  scald- 
ing tears ;  yet  you  can  not  help  it ;  they 
fall — great  drops — a  river  of  tears,  as  you 
gather  him  convulsively  to  your  bosom ! 

"Father,  why  do  you  cry  so  ?"  says  Frank, 
with  the  tears  of  dreadful  sympathy  starting 
from  those  eyes  of  childhood. 

"Why,  papa?"  mimes  little  Nelly. 

Answer  them  if  you  dare !  Try  it ;  what 
words — blundering  weak  words — choked 
with  agony — leading  nowhere — ending  in 
new  and  convulsive  clasps  of  your  weeping 
motherless  children. 

Had  she  gone  to  her  grave,  there  would 
have  been  a  holy  joy — a  great  and  swelling 
grief  indeed — but  your  poor  heart  would 


A  DREAM    OF   DARKNESS 


265 


have  found  a  rest  in  the  quiet  churchyard ; 
and  your  feelings,  rooted  in  that  cherished 
grave,  would  have  stretched  up  toward 
heaven  their  delicate  leaves,  and  caught  the 
dews  of  His  grace,  who  watcheth  the  lilies. 
But  now — with  your  heart  cast  under  foot, 
or  buffeted  on  the  lips  of  the  lying  world — 
finding  no  shelter,  and  no  abiding  place — 
alas,  we  do  guess  at  the  infinitude,  only  by 
suffering. 

Madge,  Madge,  can  this  be  so  ?  Are  you 
not  still  the  same,  sweet,  guileless  child  of 
Heaven  ? 


VII 

PEACE 

IT  is  a  dream ;  fearful  to  be  sure — but 
only  a  dream.  Madge  is  true.  That  soul 
is  honest ;  it  could  not  be  otherwise.  God 
never  made  it  to  be  false;  He  never  made 
the  sun  for  darkness. 

And  before  the  evening  has  waned  to 
midnight  sweet  day  has  broken  on  your 
gloom ;  Madge  is  folded  to  your  bosom ; 
sobbing  fearfully;  not  for  guilt,  or  any 
shadow  of  guilt,  but  for  the  agony  she  reads 
upon  your  brow,  and  in  your  low  sighs. 

The  mystery  is  all  cleared  by  a  few  light- 
ning words  from  her  indignant  lips ;  and 
her  whole  figure  trembles,  as  she  shrinks 
within  your  embrace  with  the  thought  of 
that  great  evil  that  seemed  to  shadow  you. 
The  villain  has  sought  by  every  art  to  be- 
guile her  into  appearances  which  should 
compromise  her  character,  and  so  wound 
her  delicacy  as  to  take  away  the  courage  for 
return;  he  has  even  wrought  upon  her  af- 
266 


PEACE  267 

fection  for  you  as  his  master-weapon;  a 
skilfully-contrived  story  of  some  accident 
that  had  befallen  you,  had  wrought  upon 
her  to  the  sudden  and  silent  leave  of  home. 
But  he  has  failed.  At  the  first  suspicion  of 
his  falsity,  her  dignity  and  virtue  shivered 
all  his  malice.  She  shudders  at  the  bare 
thought  of  that  fiendish  scheme  which  has 
so  lately  broken  on  her  view. 

"Oh,  Clarence,  Clarence,  could  you  for 
one  moment  believe  this  of  me  ?" 

"Dear  Madge,  forgive  me,  if  a  dreamy 
horror  did  for  an  instant  palsy  my  better 
thought — it  is  gone  utterly — it  will  never — 
never  come  again!" 

And  there  she  leans,  with  her  head  pil- 
lowed on  your  shoulder,  the  same  sweet  an- 
gel that  has  led  you  in  the  way  of  light; 
and  who  is  still  your  blessing,  and  your 
pride. 

He — and  you  forbear  to  name  his  name — 
is  gone ;  flying  vainly  from  the  consciousness 
of  guilt  with  the  curse  of  Cain  upon  him — 
hastening  toward  the  day,  when  Satan  shall 
clutch  his  own. 

A  heavenly  peace  descends  upon  you  that 
night ;  all  the  more  sacred  and  calm  for  the 
fearful  agony  that  has  gone  before.  A 
heaven  that  seemed  lost,  is  yours.  A  love 


DREAM-LIFE 


268 


that  you  had  almost  doubted,  is  beyond  all 
suspicion.  A  heart  that  in  the  madness  of 
your  frenzy  you  had  dared  to  question,  you 
worship  now,  with  blushes  of  shame.  You 
thank  God,  for  this  great  goodness  as  you 
never  thanked  Him  for  any  earthly  blessing 
before;  and  with  this  twin  gratitude  lying 
on  your  hearts,  and  clearing  your  face  to 
smiles,  you  live  on  together  the  old  life  of 
joy,  and  of  affection. 

Again  with  brimming  nectar,  the  years 
fill  up  their  vases.  Your  children  grow  into 
the  same  earnest  joyousness,  and  with  the 
same  home  faith,  which  lightened  upon  your 
young  dreams ;  and  toward  which  you  seem 
to  go  back  as  you  riot  with  them  in  their 
Christmas  joys,  or  upon  the  velvety  lawn 
of  June. 

Anxieties  indeed  overtake  you;  but  they 
are  those  anxieties  which  only  the  selfish 
would  avoid — anxieties  that  better  the  heart 
with  a  great  weight  of  tenderness.  It  may 
be  that  your  mischievous  Frank  runs  wild 
with  the  swift  blood  of  boyhood,  and  that 
the  hours  are  long  which  wait  his  coming. 
It  may  be  that  your  heart  echoes  in  silence 
the  mother's  sobs,  as  she  watches  his  fits  of 
waywardness,  and  showers  upon  his  very 
neglect,  excess  of  love. 


3 


i\ 


PEACE 


Danger  perhaps  creeps  upon  little  joyous 
Nelly,  which  makes  you  tremble  for  her 
life ;  the  mother's  tears  are  checked  that  she 
may  not  deepen  your  grief;  and  her  care 
guards  the  little  sufferer  like  a  providence. 
The  nights  hang  long  and  heavy;  dull 
stifled  breathing  wakes  the  chamber  with 
ominous  sound ;  the  mother's  eye  scarce 
closes,  but  rests  with  fond  sadness  upon  the 
little  struggling  victim  of  sickness ;  her  hand 
rests  like  an  angel  touch  upon  the  brow,  all 
beaded  with  the  heats  of  fever ;  the  strag- 
gling gray  light  of  morning  breaks  through 
the  crevices  of  the  closed  blinds — bringing 
stir  and  bustle  to  the  world,  but  in  your 
home — lighting  only  the  darkness. 

Hope,  sinking  in  the  mother's  heart,  takes 
hold  on  faith  in  God;  and  her  prayer,  and 
her  placid  look  of  submission — more  than 
all  your  philosophy — add  strength  to  your 
faltering  courage. 

But  little  Nelly  brightens;  her  faded 
features  take  on  bloom  again ;  she  knows 
you ;  she  presses  your  hand ;  she  draws 
down  your  cheek  to  her  parched  lip ;  she 
kisses  you,  and  smiles.  The  mother's  brow 
loses  its  shadow ;  day  dawns  within,  as  well 
as  without;  and  on  bended  knees,  God  is 
thanked ! 


270 


DREAM-LIFE 


Perhaps  poverty  faces  you ;  your  darling 
schemes  break  down.  One  by  one,  with 
failing  heart,  you  strip  the  luxuries  from 
life.  But  the  sorrow  which  oppresses  you, 
is  not  the  selfish  sorrow  which  the  lone  man 
feels ;  it  is  far  nobler ;  its  chiefest  mourning 
is  over  the  despoiled  home.  Frank  must 
give  up  his  promised  travel ;  Madge  must 
lose  her  favorite  pony;  Nelly  must  be  de- 
nied her  little  fete  upon  the  lawn.  The  home 
itself,  endeared  by  so  many  scenes  of  hap- 
piness, and  by  so  many  of  suffering — must 
be  given  up.  It  is  hard — very  hard  to  tear 
away  your  wife  from  the  flowers,  the  birds, 
the  luxuries,  that  she  has  made  so  dear. 

Now,  she  is  far  stronger  than  you.  She 
contrives  new  joys ;  she  wears  a  holy  calm ; 
she  cheers  by  a  new  hopefulness ;  she  buries 
even  the  memory  of  luxury  in  the  riches 
of  the  humble  home  that  her  wealth  of 
heart  endows.  Her  soul,  catching  radiance 
from  that  heavenly  world  where  her  hope 
lives,  kindles  amid  the  growing  shadows, 
and  sheds  balm  upon  the  little  griefs — like 
the  serene  moon,  slanting  the  dead  sun's 
life,  upon  the  night. 

Courage  wakes  in  the  presence  of  those 
dependent  on  your  toil.  Love  arms  your 
hand  and  quickens  your  brain.  Resolutions 


PEACE  271 

break  large  from  the  swelling  soul.  Energy 
leaps  into  your  action  like  light.  Grad- 
ually you  bring  back  into  your  humble  home 
a  few  traces  of  the  luxury  that  once 
adorned  it.  That  wife,  whom  it  is  your 
greatest  pleasure  to  win  to  smiles,  wears  a 
half  sad  look  as  she  meets  these  proofs  of 
love ;  she  fears  that  you  are  periling  too 
much  for  her  pleasure. 

For  the  first  time  in  life  you  deceive 
her.  You  have  won  wealth  again ;  you  now 
step  firmly  upon  your  new-gained  sandals 
of  gold.  But  you  conceal  it  from  her.  You 
contrive  a  little  scheme  of  surprise,  with 
Frank  alone,  in  the  secret. 

You  purchase  again  the  old  home ;  you 
stock  it,  as  far  as  may  be,  with  the  old  lux- 
uries ;  a  new  harp  is  in  the  place  of  that 
one  which  beguiled  so  many  hours  of  joy; 
new  and  cherished  flowers  bloom  again 
upon  the  window ;  her  birds  hang  and  war- 
ble their  melody,  where  they  warbled  it  be- 
fore. A  pony — like  as  possible  to  the  old — 
is  there  for  Madge;  a  fete  is  secretly  con- 
trived upon  the  lawn.  You  even  place  the 
old  familiar  books  upon  the  parlor  table. 

The  birthday  of  your  own  Madge  is  ap- 
proaching: a  fete  you  never  pass  by  with- 
out home  rejoicings.  You  drive  over  with 


DREAM-LIFE 


her,  upon  that  morning,  for  another  look  at 
the  old  place;  a  cloud  touches  her  brow — 
but  she  yields  to  your  wish.  An  old  serv- 
ant— whom  you  had  known  in  better  days — 
throws  open  the  gates. 

"It  is  too — too  sad,"  says  Madge,  "let 
us  go  back,  Clarence,  to  our  own  home ;  we 
are  happy  there." 

"A  little  farther,  Madge." 

The  wife  steps  slowly  over  what  seems 
the  sepulcher  of  so  many  pleasures  ;  the  chil- 
dren gambol  as  of  old,  and  pick  flowers. 
But  the  mother  checks  them. 

"They  are  not  ours  now,  my  children !" 

You  stroll  to  the  very  door;  the  gold- 
finches are  hanging  upon  the  wall ;  the 
mignonette  is  in  the  window.  You  feel 
the  hand  of  Madge  trembling  upon  your 
arm;  she  is  struggling  with  her  weakness. 

A  tidy  waiting-woman  shows  you  into  the 
old  parlor :  there  is  a  harp ;  and  there,  too, 
such  books  as  we  loved  to  read. 

Madge  is  overcome;  now,  she  entreats: 
"Let  us  go  away,  Clarence !"  and  she  hides 
her  face. 

"Never,  dear  Madge,  never !  it  is  yours — 
all  yours !" 

She  looks  up  in  your  face ;  she  sees  your 
look  of  triumph ;  she  catches  sight  of  Frank 


PEACE 


273 


bursting  in  at  the  old  hall  door,  all  radiant 

with  joy. 

"Frank !— Clarence !"— the    tears    forbid 

any  more. 

"God  bless  you,  Madge !  God  bless  you !" 
And  thus,  in  peace  and  in  joy,  MANHOOD 

passes  on  into  the  third  season  of  our  life — 

even  as  golden  AUTUMN  sinks  slowly  into 

the  tomb  of  WINTER. 


i 


WINTER 

OR 

DREAMS 
OF  AGE 


WINTER 

SLOWLY,  thickly,  fastly,  fall  the  snow- 
flakes,  like  the  seasons  upon  the  life  of  man. 
At  the  first,  they  lose  themselves  in  the 
brown  mat  of  herbage,  or  gently  melt  as 
they  fall  upon  the  broad  stepping  stone  at 
the  door.  But  as  hour  after  hour  passes, 
the  feathery  flakes  stretch  their  white  cloak 
plainly  on  the  meadow,  and  chilling  the 
door-step  with  their  multitude,  cover  it  with 
a  mat  of  pearl. 

The  dried  grass  tips  pierce  the  mantle  of 
white,  like  so  many  serried  spears;  but  as 
the  storm  goes  softly  on,  they  sink  one  by 
one  to  their  snowy  tomb;  and  presently 
show  nothing  of  all  their  army,  save  one  or 
two  straggling  banners  of  blackened  and 
shrunken  daisies. 

Across  the  wide  meadow  that  stretches 
from  my  window,  I  can  see  nothing  of  those 
hills  which  were  so  green  in  summer:  be- 
277 


278 


DREAM-LIFE 


tween  me  and  them,  lie  only  the  soft,  slow 
moving  masses,  filling  the  air  with  white- 
ness. I  catch  only  a  glimpse  of  one  gaunt 
and  bare-armed  oak,  looming  through  the 
feathery  multitude  like  a  tall  ship's  spars 
breaking  through  a  fog. 

The  roof  of  the  barn  is  covered ;  and  the 
leaking  eaves  show  dark  stains  of  water 
that  trickle  down  the  weather-beaten  boards. 
The  pear  trees  that  wore  such  weight  of 
greenness  in  the  leafy  June,  now  stretch 
their  bare  arms  to  the  snowy  blast,  and 
carry  upon  each  tiny  bough,  a  narrow  bur- 
den of  winter. 

The  old  house  dog  marches  stately 
through  the  strange  covering  of  earth,  and 
seems  to  ponder  on  the  welcome  he  will 
show,  and  shakes  the  flakes  from  his  long 
ears,  and  with  a  vain  snap  at  a  floating 
feather,  he  stalks  again  to  his  dry  covert  in 
the  shed.  The  lambs  that  belonged  to  the 
meadow  flock,  with  their  feeding  ground 
all  covered,  seem  to  wonder  at  their  losses ; 
but  take  courage  from  the  quiet  air  of  the 
veteran  sheep,  and  gambol  after  them  as 
they  move  sedately  toward  the  shelter  of 
the  barn. 

The  cat,  driven  from  the  kitchen  door, 


WINTER 


279 


beats  a  coy  retreat  with  long  reaches  of 
her  foot  upon  the  yielding  surface.  The 
matronly  hens  saunter  out  at  a  little  lifting 
of  the  storm,  and  eye  curiously,  with  heads 
half  turned,  their  sinking  steps;  and  then 
fall  back  with  a  quiet  cluck  of  satisfaction 
to  the  wholesome  gravel  by  the  stable  door. 

By  and  by  the  snowflakes  pile  more 
leisurely;  they  grow  large  and  scattered, 
and  come  more  slowly  than  before.  The 
hills  that  were  brown  heave  into  sight — 
great  rounded  billows  of  white.  The  gray 
woods  look  shrunken  to  half  their  height, 
and  stand  waving  in  the  storm.  The  wind 
freshens  and  scatters  the  light  flakes  that 
crown  the  burden  of  the  show ;  and  as  the 
day  droops,  a  clear  bright  sky  of  steel  color 
cleaves  the  land  and  clouds,  and  sends  down 
a  chilling  wind  to  bank  the  walls,  and  to 
freeze  the  storm.  The  moon  rises  full  and 
round  and  plays  with  a  joyous  chill  over 
the  glistening  raiment  of  the  land. 

I  pile  my  fire  with  the  clean  cleft  hickory ; 
and  musing  over  some  sweet  story  of  the 
olden  time,  I  wander  into  a  rich  realm  of 
thought,  until  my  eyes  grow  dim,  and 
dreaming  of  battle  and  of  prince,  I  fall  to 
sleep  in  my  old  farm  chamber. 


I 


280 


DREAM-LIFE 


At  morning,  I  find  my  dreams  all  written 
on  the  window,  in  crystals  of  fairy  shape. 
The  cattle,  one  by  one,  with  ears  frost- 
tipped,  and  with  frosted  noses,  wend  their 
way  to  the  watering  place  in  the  meadow. 
One  by  one  they  drink,  and  crop  at  the 
stunted  herbage,  which  the  warm  spring 
keeps  green  and  bare. 

A  hound  bays  in  the  distance ;  the  smoke 
of  cottages  rises  straight  toward  heaven ; 
a  lazy  jingle  of  sleigh-bells  wakens  the  quiet 
of  the  highroad ;  and  upon  the  hills  the  leaf- 
less woods  stand  low,  like  crouching  armies 
with  guns  and  spears  in  rest,  and  among 
them  the  scattered  spiral  pines  rise  like 
bannermen,  uttering  with  their  thousand 
tongues  of  green  the  proud  war  cry — "God 
is  with  us!" 

But  the  sky  of  winter  is  as  capricious  as 
the  sky  of  spring — even  as  the  old  wander 
in  thought  like  the  vagaries  of  a  boy. 

Before  noon  the  heavens  are  mantled  with 
a  leaden  gray ;  the  eaves  that  leaked  in  the 
glow  of  the  sun  now  tell  their  tale  of 
morning's  warmth  in  crystal  ranks  of  icicles. 
The  cattle  seek  their  shelter;  the  few  linger- 
ing leaves  of  the  white  oak  rustle  dismally ; 
the  pines  breathe  sighs  of  mourning.  As 


WINTER 


28l 


the  night  darkens,  and  deepens  the  storm, 
the  house  dog  bays ;  the  children  crouch  in 
the  wide  chimney  corners;  the  sleety  rain 
comes  in  sharp  gusts.  And  as  I  sit  by  the 
bright  leaping  blaze  in  my  chamber,  the  scat- 
tered hail-drops  beat  upon  my  window,  like 
the  tappings  of  an  OLD  MAN'S  cane. 


WHAT    IS    GONE 


GONE  !  Did  it  ever  strike  you,  my  reader, 
how  much  meaning  lies  in  that  little  mono- 
syllable— gone  ?  Say  it  to  yourself  at  night- 
fall, when  the  sun  has  sunk  under  the  hills, 
and  the  crickets  chirp — "gone."  Say  it  to 
yourself  when  the  night  is  far  over,  and 
you  wake  with  some  sudden  start  from 
pleasant  dreams — "gone."  Say  it  to  your- 
self in  some  country  churchyard,  where  your 
father  or  your  mother  sleeps  under  the 
blooming  violets  of  spring — "gone."  Say 
it  in  your  sobbing  prayer  to  Heaven,  as  you 
cling  lovingly,  but,  oh,  how  vainly,  to  the 
hand  of  your  sweet  wife — "gone!" 

Ay,  is  there  not  meaning  in  it?  And 
now,  what  is  gone — or  rather,  what  is  not 
gone  ?  Childhood  is  gone  with  all  its  blushes 
and  fairness — with  all  its  health  and  wan- 
toning— with  all  its  smiles  like  glimpses  of 
heaven ;  and  all  its  tears  which  were  but 
the  suffusion  of  joy. 

Youth  is  gone;  bright  hopeful  youth, 
282 


WHAT    IS   GONE  283 

when  you  counted  the  years  with  jeweled 
numbers,  and  hung  lamps  of  ambition  on 
your  path,  which  lighted  the  palace  of  re- 
nown ;  when  the  days  were  woven  into 
weeks  of  blithe  labor,  and  the  weeks  were 
rolled  into  harvest  months  of  triumph,  and 
the  months  were  bound  into  golden  sheaves 
of  years — all  gone! 

The  strength  and  pride  of  manhood  is 
gone ;  your  heart  and  soul  have  stamped 
their  deepest  dye,  the  time  of  power  is  past ; 
your  manliness  has  told  its  tale ;  henceforth 
your  career  is  down;  hitherto  you  have 
journeyed  up.  You  look  back  upon  a  dec- 
ade, as  you  once  looked  upon  a  half  score 
of  months ;  a  year  has  become  to  your 
slackened  memory,  and  to  your  dull  percep- 
tions, like  a  week  of  childhood.  Suddenly 
and  swiftly  come  past  you,  great  whirls  of 
gone-by  thought,  and  wrecks  of  vain  labor, 
eddying  upon  the  stream  that  rushes  to  the 
grave.  The  sweeping  outlines  of  life,  that 
lay  once  before  the  vision — rolling  into  wide 
billows  of  years  like  easy  lifts  of  a  broad 
mountain  range — now  seem  close  packed 
together,  as  with  a  Titan  hand ;  and  you  see 
only  crowded  craggy  heights — like  Alpine 
fastnesses — parted  with  glaciers  of  grief, 

and  leaking  abundant  tears. 

/^ 


DREAM-LIFE 


Your  friends  are  gone ;  they  who  coun- 
seled and  advised  you,  and  who  protected 
your  weakness,  will  guard  it  no  more  for- 
ever. One  by  one,  they  have  dropped  away 
as  you  have  journeyed  on;  and  yet  your 
journey  does  not  seem  a  long  one.  Life,  at 
the  longest,  is  but  a  bubble  that  bursts  so 
soon  as  it  is  rounded. 

Nelly,  your  sweet  sister,  to  whom  your 
heart  clung  so  fondly  in  the  young  days, 
and  to  whom  it  has  clung  ever  since,  in 
the  strongest  bonds  of  companionship — is 
gone — with  the  rest. 

Your  thought — wayward  now,  and  flick- 
ering— runs  over  the  old  days  with  quick 
and  fevered  step ;  it  brings  back,  faintly  as 
it  may,  the  noisy  joys,  and  the  safety,  that 
belonged  to  the  old  garret  roof ;  it  figures 
again  the  image  of  that  calm-faced  father — 
long  since  sleeping  beside  your  mother; 
it  rests  like  a  shadow,  upon  the  night  when 
Charlie  died;  it  grasps  the  old  figures  of 
the  schoolroom,  and  kindles  again  (how 
strange  is  memory),  the  fire  that  shed  its 
luster  upon  the  curtains,  and  the  ceiling,  as 
you  lay  groaning  with  your  first  hours  of 
sickness. 

Your  flitting  recollection  brings  back  with 
gushes  of  exultation,  the  figure  of  that  lit- 


WHAT  IS  GONE 


285 


tie  blue-eyed  hoyden — Madge — as  she  came 
with  her  work  to  pass  the  long  evenings 
with  Nelly;  it  calls  again  the  shy  glances 
that  you  cast  upon  her,  and  your  naive  ig- 
norance of  all  the  little  counter-play,  that 
might  well  have  passed  between  Frank  and 
Nelly.  Your  mother's  form,  too,  clear  and 
distinct,  comes  upon  the  wave  of  your  rock- 
ing thought;  her  smile  touches  you  now  in 
age,  as  it  never  touched  you  in  boyhood. 

The  image  of  that  fair  Miss  Dalton,  who 
led  your  fancy  into  such  mad  captivity, 
glides  across  your  vision  like  the  fragment 
of  a  crazy  dream — long  gone  by.  The 
country  home,  where  lived  the  grandfather 
of  Frank,  gleams  kindly  in  the  sunlight  of 
your  memory ;  and  still  poor  blind  Fanny — 
long  since  gathered  to  that  rest,  where  her 
closed  eyes  will  open  upon  visions  of  joy — 
draws  forth  a  sigh  of  pity. 

Then  comes  up  that  sweetest  and  bright- 
est vision  of  love,  and  the  doubt  and  care 
which  ran  before  it — when  your  hope 
groped  eagerly  through  your  pride  and 
worldliness  toward  the  sainted  purity 
her,  whom  you  know  to  be — all  too  good ; 
when  you  trembled  at  the  thought  of  your 
own  vices  and  blackness  in  the  presence  of 
her  who  seemed — virtue's  self.  And  even 

/* 


286 


DREAM-LIFE 


now,  your  old  heart  bounds  with  joy,  as  you 
recall  the  first  timid  assurance  that  you 
were  blessed  in  the  possession  of  her  love, 
and  that  you  might  live  in  her  smiles. 

Your  thought  runs  like  flowing  melody 
over  the  calm  joy  that  followed  you  through 
so  many  years — to  the  prattling  children, 
who  were  there  to  bless  your  path.  How 
poor,  seem  now  your  transports,  as  you  met 
their  childish  embraces,  and  mingled  in  their 
childish  employ;  how  utterly  weak  the  ac- 
tual, when  compared  with  that  glow  of  af- 
fection which  memory  lends  to  the  scene! 

Yet  all  this  is  gone ;  and  the  anxieties  are 
gone  which  knit  your  heart  so  strongly  to 
those  children,  and  to  her — the  mother; 
anxieties  which  distressed  you — which  you 
would  eagerly  have  shunned ;  yet,  whose 
memory  you  would  not  now  bargain  away 
for  a  king's  ransom.  What  were  the  sun- 
light worth,  if  clouds  did  not  sometimes 
hide  its  brightness ;  what  were  the  spring, 
or  the  summer,  if  the  lessons  of  the  chilling 
winter  did  not  teach  us  the  story  of  their 
warmth  ? 

The  days  are  gone,  too,  in  which  you  may 
have  lingered  under  the  sweet  suns  of  Italy 
— with  the  cherished  one  beside  you,  and 
the  eager  children,  learning  new  prattle  in 


WHAT   IS   GONE  287 

the  soft  language  of  those  eastern  lands. 
The  evenings  are  gone  in  which  you 
loitered  under  the  trees,  with  those  dear 
ones,  under  the  light  of  a  harvest  moon, 
and  talked  of  your  blooming  hopes,  and  of 
the  stirring  plans  of  your  manhood.  There 
are  no  more  ambitious  hopes — no  more 
sturdy  plans  !  Life's  work  has  rounded  into 
the  evening  that  shortens  labor. 

And  as  you  loiter  in  dreams  over  the  wide 
waste  of  what  is  gone — a  mingled  array  of 
griefs  and  of  joys — of  failures,  and  of  tri-  ; 
umphs — you  bless  God  that  there  has  been  so  \ 
much  of  joy  belonging  to  your  shattered 
life ;  and  you  pray  God,  with  the  vain  fond- 
ness that  belongs  to  a  parent's  heart,  that 
more  of  joy,  and  less  of  toil,  may  come  near 
to  the  cherished  ones,  who  bear  up  your 
hope  and  name. 

And  with  your  silent  prayer  comes  back 
the  old  teachings  and  vagaries  of  the  boyish 
heart  in  its  reaches  toward  Heaven.  You  re- 
call the  old  church-reckoning  of  your  good- 
ness :  is  there  much  more  of  it  now,  than 
then?  Is  not  Heaven  just  as  high,  and  the 
world  as  sadly  broad  ? 

Alas,  for  the  poor  tale  of  goodness  which 
age  brings  to  the  memory!  There  may 
be  crowning  acts  of  benevolence  shining, 


288 


DREAM-LIFE 


here  and  there  ;  but  the  margin  of  what  has 
not  been  done  is  very  broad.  How  weak 
and  insignificant  seems  the  story  of  life's 
goodness,  and  profit,  when  death  begins  to 
slant  his  shadow  upon  our  souls !  How  in- 
finite, in  the  comparison,  seems  that  eternal 
goodness,  which  is  crowned  with  mercy. 
How  self  vanishes  like  a  blasted  thing  and 
only  lives — if  it  lives  at  all — in  the  glow  of 
that  redeeming  light,  which  radiates  from 
the  CROSS  and  the  THRONE. 


II 

WHAT    IS   LEFT 

BUT  MUCH  as  there  is  gone  of  life,  and  of 
its  joys — very  much  remains ;  very  much  in 
earnest,  and  very  much  more  in  hope.  Still 
you  see  visions,  and  you  dream  dreams,  of 
the  times  that  are  to  come. 

Your  home  and  heart  are  left;  within 
that  home,  the  old  Bible  holds  its  wonted 
place,  which  was  the  monitor  of  your  boy- 
hood ;  and  now,  more  than  ever,  it  prompts 
those  reverent  reaches  of  the  spirit,  which 
go  beyond  even  the  track  of  dreams. 

That  cherished  Madge,  the  partner  of  your 

life  and  joy,  still  lingers,  though  her  step  is /^ 

feeble,  and  her  eyes  are  dimmed;  not,  as 
once,  attracting  you  by  any  outward  show 
of  beauty ;  your  heart  glowing  through  the 
memory  of  a  life  of  joy,  needs  no  such  stim- 
ulant to  the  affections.  Your  hearts  are  knit 
together  by  a  habit  of  growth,  and  a  una- 
nimity of  desire.  There  is  less  to  remind  of 
the  vanities  of  earth,  and  more  to  quicken 
289 


290 


DREAM-LIFE 


the  hopes  of  a  time  when  body  yields  to 
spirit. 

Your  own  poor  battered  hulk  wants  no 
jaunty-trimmed  craft  for  consort ;  but  twin 
of  heart,  and  soul,  as  you  are  twin  of  years, 
you  float  tranquilly  toward  that  haven  which 
lies  before  us  all. 

Your  children,  now  almost  verging  on 
maturity,  bless  your  hearth  and  home.  Not 
one  is  gone.  Frank  indeed — that  wild  fellow 
of  a  youth,  who  has  wrought  your  heart 
into  perplexing  anxieties  again  and  again, 
as  you  have  seen  the  wayward  dashes  of  his 
young  blood — is  often  away.  But  his  heart 
yet  centers  where  yours  centers ;  and  his  ab- 
sence is  only  a  nearer  and  bolder  strife  with 
that  fierce  world,  whose  circumstances  every 
man  of  force  and  energy  is  born  to  conquer. 

His  return,  from  time  to  time,  with  that 
gfoud  figure  of  opening  manliness,  and  that 
full  flush  of  health,  speaks  to  your  affec- 
tions, as  you  could  never  have  believed  it 
would.  It  is  not  for  a  man,  who  is  the 
father  of  a  man,  to  show  any  weakness  of 
the  heart,  or  any  over-sensitiveness,  in  those 
ties  which  bind  him  to  his  kin.  And  yet — 
yet,  as  you  sit  by  your  fireside,  with  your 
clear  gray  eye  feasting  in  its  feebleness  on 
that  proud  figure  of  a  man  who  calls  you 


.WHAT   IS   LEFT  29! 

"father," — and  as  you  see  his  fond  and 
loving  attentions  to  that  one  who  has  been 
your  partner  in  all  anxieties  and  joys — 
there  is  a  throbbing  within  your  bosom  that 
makes  you  almost  wish  him  young  again: 
that  you  might  embrace  him  now,  as  when 
he  warbled  in  your  rejoicing  ear,  those  first 
words  of  love.  Ah,  how  little  does  a  son 
know  the  secret  and  craving  tenderness  of 
a  parent;  how  little  conception  has  he  of 
those  silent  bursts  of  fondness  and  of  joy, 
which  attend  his  coming,  and  which  crown 
his  parting! 

There  is  young  Madge,  too— dark-eyed, 
tall,  with  a  pensive  shadow  resting  on  her 
face,  the  very  image  of  refinement  and  of 
delicacy.  She  is  thoughtful;  not  breaking 
out,  like  the  hoyden  flax-haired  Nelly,  into 
bursts  of  joy  and  singing — but  stealing 
upon  your  heart  with  a  gentle  and  quiet 
tenderness  that  diffuses  itself  throughout- 
the  household  like  a  soft  zephyr  of  summer. 

There  are  friends,  too,  yet  left,  who  come 
in  upon  your  evening  hours ;  and  light  up 
the  loitering  time  with  dreamy  story  of  the 
years  that  are  gone.  How  eagerly  you  lis- 
ten to  some  gossiping  veteran  friend,  who 
with  his  deft  words,  calls  up  the  thread  of 
some  bygone  years  of  life ;  and  with  what  a  ^^ 


292 


DREAM-LIFE 


careless,  yet  grateful  recognition  you  lapse, 
as  it  were,  into  the  current  of  the  past ;  and 
live  over  again,  by  your  hospitable  blaze,  the 
stir,  the  joy,  and  the  pride  of  your  lost  man- 
hood. 

The  children  of  friends,  too,  have  grown 
upon  your  march ;  and  come  to  welcome  you 
with  that  reverent  deference  which  always 
touches  the  heart  of  age.  That  wild  boy 
Will,  the  son  of  a  dear  friend — who,  but  a 
little  while  ago,  was  worrying  you  with  his 
boyish  pranks,  has  now  shot  up  into  a  tall 
and  graceful  youth  ;  and  evening  after  even- 
ing finds  him  making  part  of  your  little 
household  group. 

Does  the  fond  old  man  think  that  he  is  all 
the  attraction! 

It  may  be  that  in  your  dreamy  specula- 
tions, about  the  future  of  your  children  (for 
still  you  dream)  you  think  that  Will  may 
possibly  become  the  husband  of  the  sedate 
and  kindly  Madge.  It  worries  you  to  find 
Nelly  teasing  him  as  she  does ;  that  mad  hoy- 
den will  never  be  quiet ;  she  provokes  you 
excessively ;  and  yet,  she  is  a  dear  creature ; 
there  is  no  meeting  those  laughing  blue  eyes 
of  hers  without  a  smile  and  an  embrace. 

It  pleases  you  however  to  see  the  winning 


WHAT   IS   LEFT  293 

frankness  with  which  Madge  always  re- 
ceives Will.  And  with  a  little  of  your  old 
vanity  of  observation,  you  trace  out  the 
growth  of  their  dawning  attachment.  It 
provokes  you  to  find  Nelly  breaking  up 
there  quiet  tete-a-tetes  with  her  provoking 
sallies ;  and  drawing  away  Will  to  some 
saunter  in  the  garden,  or  to  some  mad  gal- 
lop over  the  hills. 

At  length,  upon  a  certain  summer's  day, 
Will  asks  to  see  you.  He  approaches  with 
a  doubtful  and  disturbed  look ;  you  fear  that 
wild  Nell  has  been  teasing  him  with  her 
pranks.  Yet  he  wears  not  so  much  an  of- 
fended look  as  one  of  fear.  You  wonder 
if  it  ever  happened  to  you  to  carry  your  hat 
in  just  that  timid  manner,  and  to  wear  such 
a  shifting  expression  of  the  eye  as  poor 
Will  wears  just  now?  You  wonder  if  it 
ever  happened  to  you  to  begin  to  talk  with 
an  old  friend  of  your  father's  in  just  that  - 
abashed  way?  Will  must  have  fallen  into 
some  sad  scrape.  Well,  he  is  a  good  fellow, 
and  you  will  help  him  out  of  it. 

You  look  up  as  he  goes  on  with  his  story ; 
you  grow  perplexed  yourself ;  you  scarce  be- 
lieve your  own  ears. 

"Nelly?"— Is  Will  talking  of  Nelly? 


294 


DREAM-LIFE 


"Yes,  sir— Nelly." 

"What!  and  you  have  told  all  this  to 
Nelly — that  you  love  her  ?" 

"I  have,  sir." 

"And  she  says — " 

"That  I  must  speak  with  you,  sir." 

"Bless  my  soul !  But  she's  a  good  girl ;" 
and  the  old  man  wipes  his  eyes. 

"Nell !  are  you  there  ?'" 

And  she  comes — blushing,  lingering,  yet 
smiling  through  it  all. 

"And  you  could  deceive  your  old  father, 
Nell — "  (very  fondly). 

Nelly  only  clasps  your  hand  in  both  of 
hers. 

"And  so  you  loved  Will,  all  the  while  ?" 

Nelly  only  stoops,  to  drop  a  little  kiss  of 
pleading  on  your  forehead. 
.  "Well,  Nelly"  (it  is  hard  to  speak  round- 
ly), "give  me  your  hand  ;  here,  Will,  take  it ; 
she's  a  wild  girl ;  be  kind  to  her,  Will." 

"God  bless  you,  sir !" 

And  Nelly  throws  herself,  sobbing,  upon 
your  bosom. 

"Not  here,  not  here,  now,  Nell !  Will  is 
yonder !" 

Sobbing,  sobbing  still.  Nelly,  Nelly,  who 
would  have  thought  that  your  merry  face 
covered  such  a  heart  of  tenderness ! 


Ill 

GRIEF  AND  JOY  OF  AGE 

THE  WINTER  has  its  piercing  storms — 
even  as  autumn  hath.  Hoary  age,  crowned 
with  honor,  and  with  years,  bears  no  im- 
munity from  suffering.  It  is  the  common 
heritage  of  us  all :  if  it  come  not  in  the 
spring,  or  in  the  summer  of  our  day,  it  will 
surely  find  us  in  the  autumn,  or  amid  the 
frosts  of  winter.  It  is  the  penalty  human- 
ity pays  for  pleasure ;  human  joys  will  have 
their  balance.  Nature  never  makes  false 
weight.  The  east  wind  is  followed  by  a 
wind  from  the  west;  and  every  smile  will 
have  its  equivalent — in  a  tear. 

You  have  lived  long  and  joyously  with 
that  dear  one,  who  has  made  your  life — a 
holy  pilgrimage.  She  has  seemed  to  lead 
you  into  ways  of  pleasantness,  and  has  kin- 
dled in  you — as  the  damps  of  the  world  came 
near  to  extinguish  them — those  hopes  and 
aspirations,  which  rest  not  in  life,  but  soar 
to  the  realm  of  spirits. 

295 


•:• ,  . 


A 


296 


DREAM-LIFE 


You  have  sometimes  shuddered  with  the 
thought  of  parting :  you  have  trembled  even 
at  the  leave-taking  of  a  year,  or — of  months ; 
and  have  suffered  bitterly,  as  some  danger 
threatened  a  parting — forever.  That  dan- 
ger threatens  now.  Nor  is  it  a  sudden  fear 
to  startle  you  into  a  paroxysm  of  dread — 
nothing  of  this.  Nature  is  kinder — or,  she 
is  less  kind. 

It  is  a  slow  and  certain  approach  of  dan- 
ger, which  you  read  in  the  feeble  step,  in  the 
wan  eye,  lighting  up  from  time  to  time  into 
a  brightness  that  seems  no  longer  of  this 
world.  You  read  it  in  the  new  and  cease- 
less attentions  of  the  fond  child  who  yet 
blesses  your  home ;  and  who  conceals  from 
you  the  bitterness  of  the  coming  grief. 

Frank  is  away — over  seas;  and  as  the 
mother  mentions  that  name  with  a  tremor 
of  love  and  of  regret,  that  he  is  not  now 
with  you  all,  you  recall  that  other  death, 
when  you,  too,  were  not  there.  Then  you 
knew  little  of  a  parent's  feeling ;  now,  its  in- 
tensity is  present ! 

Day  after  day,  as  summer  passes,  she  is 
ripening  for  that  world  where  her  faith  and 
her  hope  have  so  long  lived.  Her  pressure 
of  your  hand  at  some  casual  parting  for  a 


GRIEF   AND   JOY   OF   AGE 


297 


day,  is  full  of  a  gentle  warning — as  if  she 
said — prepare  for  a  longer  adieu  ! 

Her  language,  too,  without  direct  men- 
tion, steeps  your  thoughts  in  the  bitter  cer- 
tainty that  she  foresees  her  approaching 
doom ;  and  that  she  dreads  it,  only  so  far  as 
she  dreads  the  grief  that  will  be  left  in  her 
broken  home.  Madge — the  daughter — 
glides  through  the  duties  of  that  household, 
like  an  angel  of  mercy;  she  lingers  at  the 
sick  bed — blessing,  and  taking  blessings. 

The  sun  shines  warmly  without;  and 
through  the  open  casement  beats  warmly 
upon  the  floor  within.  The  birds  sing  in 
the  joyousness  of  full-robed  summer;  the 
drowsy  hum  of  the  bees,  stealing  sweets 
from  the  honeysuckle  that  bowers  the  win- 
dow, lulls  the  air  to  a  gentle  quiet.  Her 
breathing  scarce  breaks  the  summer  still- 
ness. Yet,  she  knows  it  is  nearly  over. 
Madge,  too — with  features  saddened,  yet 
struggling  against  grief — feels — that  it  is 
nearly  over. 

It  is  very  hard  to  think  it;  how  much 
harder  to  know  it !  But  there  is  no  mistak- 
ing her  look  now — so  placid,  so  gentle,  so 
resigned !  And  her  grasp  of  your  hand — so 
warm — so  full  of  meaning ! 

"Madge,   Madge,  must  it  be?"    And  a 


*, 

298 


DREAM-LIFE 


pleasant  smile  lights  her  eye ;  and  her  grasp 
is  warmer ;  and  her  look  is — upward. 

"Must  it — must  it  be,  dear  Madge  ?"  A 
holier  smile — loftier — lit  up  of  angels,  beams 
on  her  faded  features.  The  hand  relaxes  its 
clasp ;  and  you  cling  to  it  faster — harder — 
joined  close  to  the  frail  wreck  of  your  love; 
joined  tightly — but  oh,  how  far  apart ! 

She  is  in  Heaven ;  and  you,  struggling 
against  the  grief  of  a  lorn  old  man ! 

But  sorrow,  however  great  it  be,  must  be 
subdued  in  the  presence  of  a  child.  Its 
fevered  outbursts  must  be  kept  for  those 
silent  hours,  when  no  young  eyes  are  watch- 
ing, and  no  young  hearts  will  "catch  the 
trick  of  grief." 

When  the  household  is  quiet  and  dark- 
ened ;  when  Madge  is  away  from  you,  and 
your  boy  Frank  slumbering — as  youth 
slumbers  upon  sorrow — when  you  are  alone 
with  God,  and  the  night — in  that  room  so" 
long  hallowed  by  her  presence,  but  now — 
deserted — silent ;  then  you  may  yield  your- 
self to  such  frenzy  of  tears  as  your  strength 
will  let  you.  And  in  your  solitary  rambles 
through  the  churchyard  you  can  loiter  of  a 
summer's  noon,  over  her  fresh-made  grave, 
and  let  your  pent  heart  speak,  and  your 


A  4  )) 

GRIEF  AND   TOY  OF  AfiR  son 


4  §* 


GRIEF  AND  JOY  OF  AGE  299 

spirit  lean  toward  the  Rest,  where  her  love 
has  led  you. 

Thornton — the  clergyman,  whose  prayer 
over  the  dead  has  dwelt  with  you — comes 
from  time  to  time,  to  light  up  your  solitary 
hearth,  with  his  talk  of  the  Rest — for  all 
men.  He  is  young,  but  his  earnest  and  gen- 
tle speech  wins  its  way  to  your  heart,  and  to 
your  understanding.  You  love  his  coun- 
sels :  you  make  of  him  a  friend,  whose  visits 
are  long,  and  often  repeated. 

Frank  only  lingers  for  a  while;  and  you  ! 
bid   him   again — adieu.     It   seems   to  you  \ 
that  it  may  well  be  the  last ;  and  your  bless- 
ing trembles  on  your  lip.     Yet  you  look  not 
with  dread,  but  rather  with  a  firm  trustful-, 
ness  toward  the  day  of  the  end.     For  your 
darling  Madge,  it  is  true,  you  have  anxie- 
ties;  you  fear  to  leave  her  lonely  in  the 
world,  with  no  protector  save  the  wayward 
Frank. 

It  is  later  August  when  you  call  to  Madge 
one  day  to  bring  you  the  little  portfolio,  in 
which  are  your  cherished  papers;  among 
them  is  your  last  will  and  testament. 
Thornton  has  just  left  you  and  it  seems  to 
you  that  his  repeated  kindnesses  are  deserv- 
ing of  some  substantial  mark  of  your  regard. 


3oo 


DREAM-LIFE 


"Maggie" — you  say,  "Mr.  Thornton  has 
been  very  kind  to  me." 

"Very  kind,  father." 

"I  mean  to  leave  him  here,  some  little 
legacy,  Maggie." 

"I  would  not,  father." 

"But  Madge,  my  daughter !" 

"He  is  not  looking  for  such  return, 
father." 

"But  he  has  been  very  kind,  Madge ;  I 
must  show  him  some  strong  token  of  my 
regard.  What  shall  it  be,  Maggie  ?" 

Madge  hesitates — Madge  blushes — Madge 
stoops  to  her  father's  ear,  as  if  the  very 
walls  might  catch  the  secret  of  her  heart: 
"Would  you  give  me  to  him,  father  ?" 

"But — my   dear    Madge — has    he   asked 

is?" 

"Eight  months  ago,  papa." 

"And  you  told  him — " 
r  "That  I  would  never  leave  you,  so  long  as 
you  lived !" 

"My  own  dear  Madge — come  to  me — 
kiss  me !  And  you  love  him,  Maggie  ?" 

"With  all  my  heart,  sir." 

"So  like  your  mother — the  same  figure — 
the  same  true  honest  heart !  It  shall  be  as 
you  wish,  dear  Madge.  Only  you  will  not 
leave  me  in  my  old  age,  eh,  Maggie  ?" 


GRIEF   AND   JOY   OF   AGE 

'Never,  father,  never." 


301 


And  there  she  leans  upon  his  chair — her 
arm  around  the  old  man's  neck — her  other 
hand  clasped  in  his  and  her  eyes  melting 
with  tenderness  as  she  gazes  upon  his  aged 
face — all  radiant  with  joy  and  with  hope. 


IV 

THE  END  OF  DREAMS 

A  FEEBLE  old  man,  and  a  young  lady  who 
is  just  now  blooming  into  the  maturity  of 
womanhood,  are  toiling  up  a  gentle  slope 
where  the  spring  sun  lies  warmly.  The  old 
man  totters,  though  he  leans  heavily  upon 
his  cane;  and  he  pants  as  he  seats  himself 
upon  a  mossy  rock  that  crowns  the  summit 
of  the  slope.  As  he  recovers  breath,  he 
draws  the  hand  of  the  lady  in  his,  and  with 
a  trembling  eagerness  he  points  out  an  old 
mansion  that  lies  below  under  the  shadow 
of  tall  sycamores ;  and  he  says — feebly  and 
brokenly — "That  is  it,  Maggie — the  old 
home,  the  sycamores,  the  garret,  Charlie — 
Nelly—" 

The  old  man  wipes  his  eyes.  Then  his 
hand  shifts ;  he  seems  groping  in  darkness ; 
but  soon  it  points  toward  a  little  cottage  be- 
low, heavily  overshadowed : 

"That  was  it,  Maggie ;  Madge  lived  there 
—sweet  Madge — your  mother." 
302 


THE   END  OF   DREAMS  303 

Again  the  old  man  wipes  his  eyes,  and  the 
lady  turns  away. 

Presently  they  walk  down  the  hill  to- 
gether. They  cross  a  little  valley,  with  slow 
faltering  steps.  The  lady  guides  him  care- 
fully, until  they  reach  a  little  graveyard. 

"This  must  be  it,  Maggie,  but  the  fence  is 
new.  There  it  is,  Maggie,  under  the  willow 
— my  poor  mother's  grave !" 

The  lady  weeps. 

"Thank  you,  Madge;  you  did  not  know 
her,  but  you  weep  for  me — God  bless  you !" 

The  old  man  is  in  the  midst  of  his  house- 
hold. It  is  some  festive  day.  He  holds 
feebly  his  place,  at  the  head  of  the  board. 
He  utters  in  feeble  tones — a  Thanksgiving. 

His  married  Nelly  is  there,  with  two 
blooming  children.  Frank  is  there,  with  his 
bride.  Madge — dearest  of  all — is  seated  be- 
side the  old  man,  watchful  of  his  comfort, 
and  assisting  him,  as,  with  a  shadowy  dig- 
nity, he  essays  to  do  the  honors  of  the 
board.  The  children  prattle  merrily,  the 
elder  ones  talk  of  the  days  gone  by ;  and  the 
old  man  enters  feebly — yet  with  floating 
glimpses  of  glee — into  the  cheer  and  the  re- 
joicings. 


304 


DREAM-LIFE 


Poor  old  man,  he  is  near  his  tomb !  Yet 
his  calm  eye,  looking  upward,  seems  to 
show  no  fear. 

The  same  old  man  is  in  his  chamber ;  he 
can  not  leave  his  chair  now.  Madge  is  be- 
side him  ;  Nelly  is  there,  too,  with  her  eldest- 
born.  Madge  has  been  reading  to  the  old 
man — it  was  a  passage  of  promise — of  the 
Bible  promise. 

"A  glorious  promise,"  says  the  old  man 
feebly.  "A  promise  to  me — a  promise  to 
her — poor  Madge !" 

"Is  her  picture  there,  Maggie  ?" 

Madge  brings  it  to  him:  he  turns  his 
head ;  but  the  light  is  not  strong.  They 
wheel  his  chair  to  the  window.  The  sun  is 
shining  brightly ;  still  the  old  man  can  not 
see. 

"It  is  getting  dark,  Maggie." 

Madge  looks  at  Nelly — wistfully — sadly. 

The  old  man  murmurs  something;  and 
Madge  stoops :  "Coming,"  he  says — "com- 
ing!" 

Nelly  brings  the  little  child  to  take  his 
hand.  Perhaps  it  will  revive  him.  She  lifts 
her  boy  to  kiss  his  cheek. 

The  old  man  does  not  stir;  his  eyes  do 
not  move — they  seemed  fixed  above.  The 


THE   END   OF   DREAMS 


305 


child  cries  as  his  lips  touch  the  cold  cheek. 
It  is  a  tender  SPRING  flower,  upon  the  bosom 
of  the  dying  WINTER. 


A  Hill    ||  Hill  IHII  Illlj  || 

000  033  761 


